Three Months

Yesterday it was three months since my grandson, Liam, was born – and three months and one day since he died.  It hardly seems possible that it has been that long, yet it hardly seems possible that it has been that short a time.  The early days were such a blur of shock and grief and mourning and ill health.  Then the days stretched into more days and weeks into more weeks, and now three months. 

Where have they gone?  The shock is still there, but somewhat dulled by time.  The grief is a constant, but not as intense, more a background trill that can still appear in the foreground of my consciousness in sudden, often unexpected, spurts, leaving me drained of fresh tears.  My mourning, according to definition the outward expression of bereavement, is not very obvious to anyone anymore – most times it is hidden inside me now.  I can answer “great” to the meaningless queries from strangers “how are you today” instead of ignoring or answering “trying to hang in there.” 

And my ill health?  I’m balancing, somewhat, finally, on the increased heart medications, and the slowly decreasing prednisone.  I had a very short episode of afib at 6am this morning – right when my blood level of flecainide would be lowest – but quickly ended after only a minute by stepping into a cool shower.  It wasn’t a surprise – I kept thinking about Liam yesterday and the day before, knowing I needed a release. 

I finally had a cry yesterday, while I was sitting outside on my porch reading.  I’m reading Jean Auel’s final book in the Earth’s Children series.  Just released, very long in coming, poorly reviewed by many, but I’m enjoying it.  While on my porch I read the following quote from Ayla, the lead female character, while speaking to the Zelandonia in the far south while on her long painted cave tour with the First:

“When a child is born dead, or leaves this world and walks in the next soon after birth, it is because the only way a person who is not born right can be fixed is to return to the Mother, so She takes them back.  Although it is much easier to say than to do, one should not grieve for such children; the Mother has taken them back so they can be made right.”

I’m starting to tear up again upon typing that paragraph. I don’t believe it is healthy to not grieve, so I disagree with Ayla's advice.  But I wonder - is Liam made “right” now?  And will his sweet baby spirit, or the part of it that was Liam, stay there (wherever it is) and wait for me, and for the rest of his family who loves him, to greet him someday and tell him how much we missed getting to know him?  I hope so, I have to believe so...