The Box

Many moms, who I have encountered after losing their baby, have talked about, “the box.” How instead of leaving with your child, beaming from ear to ear, in awe of your beautiful bundle of joy, you leave with an irreplaceable and unrepairable hole in your heart that will never go away.

And a box.

Not just any box, but a box that when opened, you immediately get the feeling that these NICU nurses have done this more times than they’d ever like to admit.

More times than anyone ever should. EVER.

It was done and handed to us immediately following Julian’s passing.

They must have already started preparing it, I thought to myself. They must have known what was going to happen to Julian. They know, they’ve seen this one too many times.

Yet, no matter how many times they’ve done this, no matter how many boxes they handed over to a sobbing mother who can barely stand, or a grieving father who looks on wondering how he will ever remain strong enough for her; the box is done the same.

It has the same love, the same patience, the same compassion, the same tears put into it as they create each and every one.

In it were Julian’s footprints made into a heart for each of his brothers. There was a glass print from his big toe, a breathtaking ornament containing his hospital bracelet, a beautiful imprint of his foot, handprints and so much more. It also contained a card. A card expressing their condolences that each and every person in the NICU signed. With a message, using our son’s name. Even a book that contained his hair.

His wavy, coursed, dark brown hair. The curliest of any of my sons.

The treasures of Julian, all piled into this one box.

Fast forward to our Annual “Friendsmas” that my husband and I have hosted for the past 9 years. We just had our 9th one last week. Angelo was the first child to be born into our group in 2014. Within the past 5 years we have expanded to TEN kids; counting Julian. About four years ago we started the tradition of having all of the kids wear matching pajamas. We always take our annual picture of the kids lined up on my couch, wearing their matching Christmas jammies. It really is the cutest thing and I look forward to it every year.

Except this year.

This year I bought two pairs of pajamas when I should have bought three. I should have three sons here to dress them in. Three sons here to talk about how adorably matched and how perfectly imperfect they all are; but one is missing.

Will he be spoken of? How can I incorporate him into this already established tradition?

You see, everything I do now, I look for ways to include him, to make sure he isn’t forgotten.

But he wasn't forgotten. Not even close.

To my surprise, they called me into the kitchen. What they presented my husband and I with, is now one of my very best treasures.

A box.

A hand crafted, built from scratch, box. Engraved with our son’s name, his birthdate.

And his heartbeat.

His real life heartbeat they got a hold of. Painted in blue.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, it is pure perfection.

I sobbed as I ran my fingers across his heartbeat engraved on the front of the box.

I touched it. I felt the grooves, the dips, the ups and downs of the actual pattern of his heart beating. A mix of emotions hit me immediately.

Gratefulness, sadness, happiness. Grief.

They had planned to make it for me, to put all of Julian's keepsakes in it. All the beautiful memorabilia the NICU put together and created for me, can now go into a hand crafted, home made, personalized, made from love, keepsake box.

And what was inside, might you wonder?

A pair of matching pajamas.

Julian’s very own pair, that he would have worn along with the other kids, personalized with his name on the back.

Man, there’s just no way to describe the immense amount of gratitude I have for my friends and the NICU nurses/doctors . Because of them, I’ll always have something to represent Julian. I’ll always have something that I can open when I’m feeling sad, happy, angry, confused.

Whatever the feeling may be, the box will be there, even if Julian isn’t.

And on the days I need it, I’ll know where to find it. Tucked away in his closet. Waiting for me to open it. Even though doing so floods me with so many raw emotions, as it brings me right back to the memories of losing him, it also reminds me that he was alive.

That he was born.

That he is loved.

That he is, and will always be, our third son.