Soren is like a mushroom from Alice in Wonderland: from one side he helps me remember, from another to forget.
I forgot the 18th of May. After a year of marking the days of Harper's birth and death, I was too caught up in the daily effort of caring for Shea and Soren to remember. It was a day for new memories, not dwelling on the past.
And yet....
I see her, in the quirk of Soren's pinky finger. I feel her, in the touch of his soft, shallow hair. I hear her in his squeaks and smell her when he nurses, breathing in that uniquely baby scent. I think of her, in the dark, pumping milk. Lou and I are reminded when we see tiny, adorable girls and are reminded of what we'll never have. This hits Lou especially hard.
There has been a romper missing. A tiny blue outfit that I remember Shea wearing. It's been cold, and it's one of the few things we have in a newborn size with long sleeves.
I haven't been able to find it.
Until yesterday.
I was cleaning out the closet and ran into the hospital bag. A Vera Bradley bag, gifted by my office, for the express purpose of visiting Harper in the hospital.
It was still mostly packed. Including that tiny romper. And I remembered. I'd packed that little outfit in anticipation of bringing Harper home the next day. It was soft and the smallest baby suit we owned, I thought it would be perfect to take her home in.
So much hope encapsulated in that bag.
So much hope encapsulated in Soren.
Last night, I watched the movie, Return to Zero. Trying to get it financed was a huge topic of discussion when I was spending time on the loss boards after Harper died. It's about the aftermath of a stillbirth.
It reminded me of all the well meaning but painful things people say to you after you lose a baby. The anger, the grief, the numbness. The difficulty of being around pregnant friends, babies. The pain you're pretty sure will never get better.
But I watched it while nursing Soren. His eyes were bright and wide open, the focused stare of a suckling newborn.
If not for losing Harper, there would be no Soren. And even after just a couple of weeks, that is unimaginable.
"Soren bean" Shea calls him. He is not afraid or self-conscious about connecting Soren to his big sister. To Shea, they are both his babies. One here, one gone.
Dear Harper bean,
This feels like goodbye, little girl. Not because I will ever forget you, not because you won't forever be a member of our family. But because this blog was to heal the pain, to help me survive the madness of losing you.
Soren is a balm for my pain. I don't think I need this blog for therapeutic purposes any more.
I wish I could see all three of you together. Shea, Harper, Soren.
Here's hoping that in the far distant future, there is a soft, warm bed where we can all snuggle together.
I love you, Harper bean. Thank you for letting me be your mommy.