On the ride home from the hospital after losing Julian, one of the major thoughts that crossed my mind was how in the world could I ever go back into his nursery again. I’ve seen movies and heard of stories where parents have lost their children and they leave their room the same; untouched. Only now can I understand why. Julian didn’t even get to experience his room, but he was supposed to. To me, that makes it just as hard as if he already had.
After finding out we were having our second son, Matteo, we decided to leave the nursery the way it was when we had it for Angelo. And why not? It was already set up, perfectly. Figured not only were we saving money without having to redo the whole thing, but it was nice to know both of our boys shared something in that way. When we found out we were having our third boy, we talked about changing the nursery up. After all, it would be 5 years of the same puppy sports decals up on the wall, thought change would be good. However, after finding out about Julian’s pleural effusion and having to go every week, was enough stress for me to not worry about anything else but his survival.
The room would be left the way it was for Angelo, for Matteo, and that was okay with us.
Of course, there was some things that were different. We added more pictures. All of his clothes were washed, folded, and neatly hung and put into his dresser by month. Some new clothes, most were ones my other boys had worn when they were little. I always loved going through the clothes and remembering Angelo and Matteo in them and thinking about how now Julian would get to wear the same outfits. Brought back old memories and how I would now be creating new ones.
But once we got home, I didn’t want anything to do with his room. I immediately told my husband to shut the door. I couldn’t bare the thought of going in and seeing it.
Unused.
Untouched.
I also thought about my boys. What if they open the door? I can’t have them do that. I don’t want them anywhere near it. I’ll have to tell them the door is to remain closed. And that was my plan. Or so, I thought.
That night I fell asleep. I slept hard. I almost couldn’t believe that I opened my eyes ad it was actually morning. I dreaded nighttime the night before. I thought for sure I would be up all night, crying. But when my head hit the pillow, my eyes closed. My body was exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
I woke up, again with the surreal feeling and questioning whether Julian was in fact really gone. I still couldn’t believe this was our life now, a life with a child lost. I can’t even begin to describe the emptiness inside.
Everyone around me was still asleep.
I got out of bed.
I had to cry, had to let it out, but I didn’t want anyone to hear me. There was only one place I could go; where I wanted to go.
Julian’s room.
I was drawn to it. I opened the door, closed it behind me and fell immediately on the floor in the middle of his room and wept. Hard. I held onto his lamb that the NICU gave him and stayed next to him his whole 36 hours of life. It was now wrapped with the rosary beads the Priest had given to us when we baptized Julian. I held onto it so tightly as I cried out for him. Alone in the room where he should have been.
I should have been holding onto my baby, not a stuffed animal; but it was all I had.
But no, I thought. There’s something else. His blanket. It was in a bag. The one we wrapped Julian in as he slipped away in our arms. I needed that, I thought. So I went and I grabbed it.
I just lay on the floor. Smelling, touching, holding onto his blanket. And his lamb. Trying to remember his smell and hoping that I wasn’t forgetting what it was like. Praying that I wasn’t going to forget the smoothness of his skin, the smell of his presence. It was all I had.
I looked around the room. I felt such a calmness about being in there. I was so worried I would never want to go in for fear it would bring me nothing but anxiety and sadness, yet it brought me so much peace.
To me, this room has a lot of meaning. It wasn’t just going to be Julian’s room, it was also the room where I brought home Angelo and Matteo. Where they slept (when they weren’t in my bed), where they were fed, where they were changed.
This room had so much more meaning than being the room of a child gone.
It was also the room where my other sons lived.
And I found peace in that.
I stayed in there for what seemed like hours. Everyone else was still asleep. When my husband woke up, he found me in there.
His first words to me were, “I thought you never wanted to come in this room?”
“I needed to. I was drawn to it.” I said to him through my tears.
He tried brushing them away but they kept falling. He sat down in the rocking chair, put my head in his lap as I lay on the floor, and cried with me.
The thought crossed my mind, what if our boys woke up? They would see us in here. They would think its okay to come into this room.
Well, is it?
Is it not?
In that moment I realized something. If I shut the door, what kind of message would I be sending to my sons? If the door were never opened, then that’s the new norm we all would have to get used to. A door that always would need to be shut for fear would set in if it ever were to open.
And what if my sons opened it?
I would like to say by mistake but given their age and the fact that they are wild and crazy, and you tell them not to do something sure enough they will find a time to do that very thing. Then what? Would I become enraged? Would I yell at them to leave it closed?
I thought about the future and imagined me becoming a psycho lunatic every time the door would open.
No. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want that for them. For me.
If I closed the door, then I’d be shutting off the memories of Julian, not just what could have been, but what we had left.
Sure enough, when our boys woke up, they saw us in there. Crying.
They asked why. And we told them again. We told them we were sad and we missed Julian and reassured them how much we loved them too.
And for the next weeks that followed, and still today and forever beyond, I go into it his room. Whether it be on an early morning before heading into work, or on a late Friday night before the start of the weekend. If I feel a cry coming on, I head right in his room, grab his lamb, sit on his chair, and lay his blanket over me.
Sometimes I do it when no one catches me.
And other times, my boys spot me in there, come in, and sit on my lap in the chair and tell me they miss him too.
And for that reason, Julian’s door remains open. Because of this, any one of us are able to go in and out, freely and without any anxieties getting in the way. My boys will sometimes grab a book from his room, go in and kiss his picture that’s on his dresser, or take a toy to play with it in the middle of the rug. Other times, they are running around like crazy madmen and happen to take a detour through his room as they continue playing and laughing, chasing one another and I'd like to think Julian is flying behind them.
As for myself, sometimes I go in there to talk to him, to go through his box, or to sit in his chair holding onto his lamb and covering myself with the blanket he was wrapped in as he passed in our arms, and desperately hoping the smell is still there.
Whatever the reason, the room has become my safe place. A place of both comfort and sadness. A place to grieve and a place to remember.
For his room is now, my sanctuary.
