It is so much easier to feel nothing than to take myself back to July 1 two years ago. Today actually kind of snuck up on me. I had decided all I wanted to do was buy a cake, sing happy birthday, and tell Beckett about his brother. We did none of those things. I went from ordering a custom cake, to picking out a stock cake at a nicer Nashville bakery, to planning to get a Publix petit four since we didn’t need a lot of cake, to deciding to use the cookies my sister-in-law sent us today. We have a book called “Someone Came Before You” that’s meant to explain to younger siblings that they have an older brother or sister they’ve never met. In the back of my mind, I expected we might read that to Beckett tonight. We didn’t do that either.
I truly felt nothing out of the ordinary today. Beckett had a routine checkup, we ran errands, etc. It was oddly like I didn’t want today to feel anything like the first year after losing Kyler. But then sweet, sweet people sent flowers again this year. And sent treats. And cards. Definitely less than the two years prior, which I expected. But I really didn’t expect this many people to remember the significance of today, especially when they never even met him. I needed those gifts to help me transition to a mode of remembering. It takes alot of work to want to open that door. Later, a box of cookies was delivered with a letter from my 1 year old niece to her “big cousin Kyler”, and that got me. I’m not sure if it was the recognition that his place in our family is secured or that Kyler should be eating cookies and throwing crumbs everywhere, but it brought tears for the first time since… Beckett’s birth?
Tonight, Shay and I are reading through my file of Kyler Memories- cards, photos, handprints, ultrasound printouts, other random records. It honestly felt kind of obligatory. It’s not something we had been looking forward to, but we knew it needed to happen. For Shay, the letters of support still seem to make the biggest impact, whereas I only have interest in seeing all of his features in every photo. I think that mostly has to do with his not wanting to see such decay on Kyler’s body.
How do you miss someone you don’t know? And how do you miss a stranger you haven’t seen in two years? And how can a stranger still feel so important to you?
I’m caught off guard by how differently I feel looking at his photos this year, now that we have a 10 month old with us. I don’t feel the same old pit in my stomach, but I’m deeply aware of how those chubby fingers could have/ would have moved, how his dark hair may have changed color, how he doesn’t have a “butt chin” like his younger brother, how full and strong he actually looked. We now have someone to compare Kyler to-- probably the closest we can ever come to a true comparison. I can see a lot of Beckett in Kyler - or vice versa. Whatever maternal things in me that love all the parts of Beckett must be trying to find connections or similarities in Kyler. I so wish I could patch up his sweet skin and open his eyes to get a better idea of who Kyler was.
The whole situation still feels so weird. Like staring at baby photos crying silently next to your husband, knowing only .2% of the information about this baby that could have been known. That’s really messed up.
Or sinking deeply into sadness over the lack of presence of this son for minutes at a time, but having trouble staying there for what feels like an appropriate amount of time, then remembering how lucky you are to have his younger brother, but also remembering that for the rest of his life, hardly anyone will know that he’s not the oldest child.
Also messed up.
I also must be honest that reflecting on Kyler's and Beckett's pregnancies reminds me how nervous I am to be pregnant again. I know that I’ll feel the need to take our next child to near 40 weeks, but the thought of the fear that waits in those last weeks makes me nauseous.
I have no idea how to order these thoughts or sum up what year 2 feels like. But I do know that when I look at Kyler’s newborn photos this year, I don’t see just a baby. I see a totally pure being that didn’t deserve to fall apart. I know what a whole and healthy baby looks like now, and that makes his broken down skin that much more upsetting. I’m not angry or confused, just sad. But it takes a lot of energy to stay this sad, and I know tomorrow I’ll wake up much more “normal” again. I hope that in time, we’ll learn to carry Kyler with us in the present and feel how special he is to us daily. I’d like to find some kind of balance. It would help if it wasn’t so awkward to be honest about how many kids we really have had and to be able to say his name casually more often (hence the name of The Kyler Project).
It used to feel so hard to pull ourselves out of that pit of mourning; now, we’re really reluctant to throw ourselves in. I believe that for health and healing, we need to go sit down there every now and then. I’m not ready to say that I’m thankful for any part of Kyler’s loss, but I know that there have been beautiful things come from it.
I’m so glad I’m not the one in charge.