The next week

6.11.14

     Time continued to go by at it's slow pace for the next week. Our good friend Dana graduated from high school the previous Saturday, so Alex and I joined her family for a celebration in her honor.
     The following Wednesday, I was doing good. Or at least I thought I was. I was able to hang around the house a little later than normal that morning because my work schedule had shifted, and right when I was getting ready to leave it hit me.
      Kaitlyn's urn stays on my nightstand next to her memory box. I don't look at it that often, but its there. Sometimes the books on my nightstand get stacked up to block my view of it and I feel guilty about that, but then I remember that as beautiful as that porcelain holder is, she's not really there. Thank you, Jesus.
       But that morning, as I was putting my shoes on, it hit me. There is an urn on my nightstand. I'm not yet 30 years old and I have an urn on my nightstand. Of a baby. Of my baby. Of my beautiful daughter that was 7 pounds, 9 ounces, and had a full head of hair.
        I froze in the middle of pulling my shoe over my heel and stared at it. And for some reason I needed to look at the ashes it contained. Since her urn is designed as a candle holder, the pink candle that had represented her at the memorial service sits on top of the rose lid. My nightstand sits just inside a window that opens up to the backyard, where we use to have a huge tree that provided shade for that window. But without the shade, sometimes that area gets a little warm with the heat from the sun coming directly through it, so the bottom of the candle's wax had sealed it to the lead of her urn so that when I picked up the candle the lid came with it.
        And there they were. The tiny plastic bag of ashes. Still white. They don't look much different than sand, with different shades of white and off white throughout it.
        The whole bag can easily sit in the palm of my hand, and although it feels dense, it is not the same weight as Kaitlyn. Its lighter. Standing there, alone in the house except for the dogs, I was holding my precious daughter in the palm of my hand.
         And then I started crying.
         To be honest, I don't really cry that much now. Sure, the waves of grief hit when something significant happens like I go through her nursery or I look at all the beautiful pictures that Mallie took for us (that permanently stay on my phone, and Alex's I think). But this wave was different. I hadn't mentally prepared myself for it, and it hit hard. I couldn't stop crying. I just missed my daughter. I wanted to hold her again.
         After a good 10 minute sobfest I tried to straighten up. I tried to wipe it off and get out the door to go to work. But I couldn't stop crying. I just couldn't drag my thoughts away from Kaitlyn and that day we last held her. I wanted so badly to hold her again.
         Eventually, I got out the door. I cried on the way to work and had to sit in the parking lot at the hospital that I was assigned to that day. Thank goodness it was my "safe" hospital where half the staff had attended Kaitlyn's memorial service. I took some deep breaths and put on my happy face (or tried to) and went inside.
          My case ended up getting delayed, and I ran into Sherri in the hallway.
          "You okay?" she asked, looking concerned.
           I just shrugged a response, and that's all it took for those tears to come right back.
           "Use my office," she said as she opened the door and ushered me in.
           As soon as she shut the door, a sob came out. I never, never sob like that outside of the house. Probably because I just have too much pride. But like I said, this wave completely consumed me from the moment I looked at Kaitlyn's urn. I just needed to cry. I sat in the same chair that six months prior I had done the same thing and fled to the office for a minute alone. I just cried.
           I'm not exaggerating, but it took me 20 minutes to get it together. Just when I thought I was done, another wave came in. I just needed to cry.
           Towards the end, I texted Alex again and told him I couldn't get it together. I even considered calling my coworkers and telling them I needed a sick day. But again, I think my pride wouldn't let me do that. I haven't had a single day where I called in sick because of grief. I'm not saying that is a good thing, I'm just saying that maybe it was time for me to play that card.
           But about the time that all those thoughts came in, I started feeling at peace. I started reciting all the verses that had been so helpful to me in those first few months. I remembered where my daughter is, and that as cheesy as it sounds and as much as some moms of loss hate it, I know that she is in a much better place. She really has no pain, no hurt, and she is a beautiful form of herself that only God knows. She is perfected in His presence, and for that I am eternally grateful. I can't wait to see my gorgeous daughter. I can't wait to hug her and see what she has become now that she is in Heaven.
           And the coolest thing about that: I know she probably says the same thing about us.