Heaven Baby

I talked to Owen a lot when he was part of me. It think that's pretty natural, especially for moms. When you're preparing for your baby, you naturally begin to imagine them. You picture how they'll fit in to your world, your heart, and your life. Since it had been over a decade since either Jay or I had brought home a baby, there was a lot of picturing what things would be like; a lot of wondering. A lot of hoping. I didn't know what life would be like with a baby and three big kids, but I knew there would be love, and walks, and laughter. And in the beginning there would be sleepless nights and diapers and laundry. So much laundry.

I also talked to him about his birth. This was a much more spiritual preparation and one only I could do for him. Birth is a sacred journey--a crossing over from one world to the next. I focused on my role as the one who would support him in his journey between worlds. I talked to him about trusting himself and my body to guide him here safely. I asked him to be strong and brave and reminded him that I would be there with him, that we would journey together. It's good that I was able to get into this headspace before his birth, because things went wildly different that we had hoped and I labored and brought him Earthside alone, thanks to German hospital Covid rules. Again, the birth story will be a post for another day. Maybe.

When Owen was in the hospital fighting, I told him so many things. I told him I was so sorry that he was born with these heart defects, that I didn't know. I told him that he was so brave and that I was so proud of him. Some days it was just "I love you, I love you, I love you" on repeat...That's all I had in me.

When the moment to say goodbye to my sweet boy came, I told him that I believe death is like birth--it's a crossing over from one world to the next. It's only really different from birth in how we feel about it. Where birth is a coming, death is a going. And naturally, we humans aren't so good with goings. I knew that helping Owen and supporting him in this crossing was what I as his mommy, had to do. I asked him to be strong and brave one more time. I also told him that even though he was crossing over, I would always be his mommy and that I would learn new ways to do that even though I was so sad. I told Owen that's why I was crying; because his crossing, his going, was a journey I could only go on with him so far. Because it meant an end to him being my Earth Baby and a start to him being my Heaven Baby. I reminded him I have never had a Heaven Baby before and to please be patient as I fumbled through it.

And boy am I fumbling. I am new to this club called grief and each morning I wake up and look for the place to return my membership--to be honest, I want out. This is not what I signed up for. This was not what we talked about. Yet, somehow my own stubborn heart keeps beating and I find a lifeline to pull me through another moment, another hour. I find that writing helps. I wouldn't call it healing, but it helps. I am slowly replacing the online groups I used to follow with grief groups, bereaved mothers networks. I am slowly opening up to learning all the ways that I can continue to be a mother to Owen--to my sweet Heaven Baby. I have found that, for me, part of this process means starting at the beginning. It means imagining his new life, picturing his world in this new place that I couldn't follow him to.

So when I close my eyes, I try to picture his world. I picture that the lions went with Owie back to Heaven, sort of like Aslan in the Chronicles of Narnia. I picture that when he got there, he was so excited and happy to play with them, and not afraid. Owie plays with lions all day! Big, soft, brave, kind lions. This picture is what I imagine it looked like when he arrived. (When I found it in a Google search, it took my breath away, too).

I imagine that in Heaven, there are no worries, no fears, no pain. No more tubes. The sky is a million different colors and the grass is as soft as his silky hair. I imagine that he gets to do all the things in Heaven that he would have done on Earth. Climb trees, taste raspberries, pet puppies, see snow, dance in the waves, chase seagulls. I also imagine that in Heaven, Owie can see me, hear me, and talk to me. I imagine him looking down when I cry and trying to send all his comforting love down to me. I imagine that in the moments when I am not falling apart, Owie is giving me a gift of peace. For those moments I am so grateful.

I do need to admit something though...

I worry that as you're reading this, you’ll think I have some sort of superhuman faith. By sharing the hopes and images I have of Heaven, I am afraid you’ll think I’m stronger in my faith and further along in my healing than I really am. It's easy to read words like mine and think "wow, she's amazing, she is doing so well." The truth is, I am just trying to make it day by day, moment by moment and right now I have no idea what I am doing or how I am doing it.

Yes, it is true I am finding hope in God, but I am also experiencing some pretty intense spiritual struggles. I am asking "why me", I am shielding my eyes when a mom walks by me pushing a stroller on the street, I am waking in the night crying out for my baby. Some days I get up out of bed only because I know that if I don't, I won't see any signs from Owen. Then I go out and I walk and I look for him, I look for his lions. If I don't see him, I admit, I start to panic a little. I guess I am just so desperate to feel connected to him. But, then I take a deep breath and imagine all the things that he must be busy doing in Heaven. So I wait. I've learned that waiting is part of being a mommy to a Heaven Baby.

I hold on to these visions I have of Heaven because it's all I have. It's too painful to remember being pregnant with him, and all my hopes and dreams. I'm too sad for that person I was. I'm also sad about what will never be. About the room he will never come home to, the clothes he will never wear. Right now, the grief hits me hard and knocks me down, consuming me for a while before gently releasing me so I can attempt to get up and restart. So yes, I hold on to God. But it's not because I am so strong, but because I am actually so very weak. These images are a lifeline for me. Imagining Heaven this way gets me through the moments when I am completely crumbling. It's how I get back up.