This is your room, Henry. This is where you will rest, we will bond, and you will be able to grow into your own world. It is the nicest and best insulated room in the house, and the only one with matching furniture. We add to it as your spirit grows, but it is still set up the same way as the day we were supposed to bring you home. I've spend a lot of time in here since; spending time with you and my grief.
This crib was given to you by your aunt and uncle. We found a crib in this house when we bought it, but we had to search around for all of the components; an attached dresser unit had become the structure our goats liked to use as a jungle gym in the small barn. Some of the pieces that also looked like they would be a part of it were in storage in the big barn, and other odds and ends were collecting dust in the attic. Your dad and I put so much time into cleaning the crib, repairing it, and putting it all together. I really liked the final product, but the minute your aunt saw it she called my brother, "you need to buy them a new crib. Don't tell them you are getting it for them. Just buy it and set it up for them in their house. We can't let them actually use this piece of shit."
The crib they got was the dream one we put on our registry, figuring no one would actually buy it. It was designed to grow with your needs, and would be the place where we put you down for the evening and greeted you with warm songs and wishes for a good morning. It is the place where you would lay, ponder, wonder, and rest. Bounce, cry, gurgle, alarm, and wait. I knew you were going to be big, and I wondered if it would make me stronger lifting such a heavy baby out every day, or if it would be what finally did my bad back in for good.
Now your crib is where we keep the art people make for your memory and our sadness, a cast of your footprints, a purchased blanket set still wrapped like new in its gift box. I wonder if I will ever use it for something, give it away, or just keep it, waiting for a time when I'll finally be able to use it with you someday, somehow.
That dresser is where I would change you. We bought the model that matches the crib because we thought it would make a nice set that didn't look too infantile. We spent many days and discussions trying to pick the right furniture set for our anticipated needs and our larger house. We wanted furniture that was very functional but looked timeless and nice so we could transition it into a tasteful guest room if you wanted something different once you were old enough to want to decorate your own room.
During the Changing of the Diapers that would happen on top of this dresser, you would be kicking and wiggling as I wrestled with your diapers. I try to distract you with loving voices and exaggerated facial expressions that are acknowledged and mirrored by you, but otherwise futile. All of your clothes are still in their drawers, sorted by size and type. They were washed and folded the week before you were due. I was trying to prepare as best I knew how to bring a you into a clean and ready world.
It was too painful to leave an empty, flat surface set up for life go unused. That dresser top has collected some scratches, momemtos, and the agates you help us find on the beach. It is also usually coated with a light dusting of flour. In this room is where you breathe the life into the sourdough starter and loaves of bread we create together. My job is to mix the starter, water, salt, and flour together in the kitchen, your job is to keep it thriving and make it rise here in your room. It takes about 2 days to make a batch of 8 loaves, and it is how we spend many of our days off together. We make such a great baking team. I love it so much when you help me. I never pegged my son to be a baker, but he is such an excellent one. It made me smile with pride when a friend told me she swears that she can't make a batch of cookies without burning them. But one time she was thinking about Henry while making some, and it was the first time her cookies turned out absolutely perfect. Henry loves to help, especially while baking.
I baked bread before I had Henry, and it was always good, but never anything very spactaular. But Henry's Bread has taken it all to a whole new level, and it is never just a plain loaf anymore. The loaves are created for him and by him, and meant to be shared. People I didn't know in ways other than to give them bread have tracked me down later to tell me that their loaf was the best they have ever tasted in their lives. I smile and thank them, sometimes telling them who the Henry is behind the bread, sometimes not, but always knowing that Henry is the one who deserves all of the credit.
The bookshelf there holds a collection my favorite books, your dad's favorite books, and other books that were given to you as gifts. Even though the books are still brand new, I can almost see them tattered, ripped, chewed on, and loved. When you were older we were going to move the books to a lower shelf so you could pick them out all by yourself. Below the books is the shelf of baby blankets that were made just for you. It means a lot to me that people put in so much time and energy hand-making detailed blankets. When I am cold I like to cover mysef in them, study their designs, and imagine the hours of love that went into creating them for you to use.
We were so excited to dress you up in all of the costumes on the bottom shelf. Your uncle and aunt, the same ones who got you the crib, gave all of those to you. One of the costumes is a sweet puffy dragon your cousin won a big prize for when she wore it at a festival. We found a little matching baby dragon hand puppet at a garage sale before you were born. Your dad and I put dragon costumes on our baby registry so we could be a matching dragon family for halloween someday, but mostly just for fun whenever we wanted. The adult dragon costumes are actually the first things that were purchased and gifted to us on the baby registry. The costumes are so soft and warm. Now we wear them on cold nights when we are missing you terribly. When either one of us puts on the dragon costume, it is a signal that that parent's heart is feeling especially heavy. The other always follows suit, putting on their costume and tracking down the dragon puppet for the long evening that is soon to follow of cuddling, crying, and reminiscing about the memories we will never get to create with you.
The recliner I spend the hours sitting in, taking this all in, is the most comfortable chair in the house. I wanted something that rocked, reclined, and swiveled easily for the hours that I would spend cuddling you, studying your features, feeding you, and falling asleep in. Now I sit in it and grieve, wonder, love, think, cry, read, and nap. My cat who otherwise has never jumped on my lap in the 7 years that I've had her, sometimes jumps on my lap in this chair when I am alone and moaning the noises of a mother's heartache that can only come out when I know no one else can hear. It makes me wonder if you are passing a message through her that you really are here, just not in the ways that I want or need.
I pumped gallons upon gallons of your milk while sitting on this chair. Pumping kept my connection to you, prolonged my attachment to the time when you were still alive in my body, and helped me escape from everything else. Feeding you was something I looked forward to most when I imagined motherhood. Originally I wanted to donate your milk, but I gave away your golden colostrum to a woman I didn't know who couldn't produce her own, and she never said thank you. She never said anything, actually. I don't know if she didn't know what that milk meant to me, if she is a wretched person, or if she meant to but just never got around to it. But no acknowledgment of any kind for receiving the first nourishment that was meant to be given to the son I will never be able to see again, but was given to her living twins instead, stabbed like a knife and still bleeds hot rage. It was more anger than I could hold, and more than enough to not make me want to carelessly give away again what I saw as part of your life. I felt more comfort pouring my baby's milk down the drain than giving it to someone who was ungrateful.
But then I met one of your new friend's mom. This mother found out she was pregnant soon after her beautiful daughter died in a tragic accident. The first night we met she mentioned that she was unable to produce milk for her baby on the way. She had spent thousands of dollars buying breast milk for her other two daughters when they were babies because that was important to her. She didn't know I was pumping and I didn't say anything to her about my plan, but I stopped pouring your milk down the drain and started freezing it for her. She knew you and understood how much it meant for me to part with it. It still didn't feel good to give away the milk you were meant to drink, but it felt better, it felt right, and it felt like it was how you wanted to share it. I saved a gallon for myself. It is still in the freezer taking up a significant amount of space, but I cannot bring myself to part with it.
My son's spirit is so generous and giving, but here I am unable to let go of anything I feel has a connection to him. I can't bring myself to part with anything else in this room. Not even the old second hand girly things that were given to us that we wouldn't have used anyway. I tried giving away some of your things to some of your best friends' moms when they had living babies a couple months ago, but even that felt too painful. I tested how it would feel by giving away the things that could be purchased from any Target store. But those things were meant for you, and we were going to use them for our next baby, Lovebug. We were very surprised to find out we were pregnant with Lovebug on your first birthday, and she was supposed to be born via c-section this coming Friday. But even the idea of using your things for her felt uncomfortable. Through an exercise in wanting to give and in trying to come to terms with the idea that I would never bear a living child, I tried to give some things away to the mothers I know fully understand, empathize, and honor what it feels like to go through every nook and cranny of this process. But even though those are things that Henry wanted to share with his friends' new little siblings, it was an experience that was too painful for me to want to repeat again any time soon.
Sometimes your dad and I talk about something we could or might want to do with your room. But those conversations dissipate with sighs and grimaces, and always give me a knot in my stomach. None of the ideas feel right to either of us, so we decide that your room is just fine the way it is. It's hard enough living our life without you. I just can't bring myself to part with all of these things that were meant to be yours, too.
