Goodbye

A few weeks ago, M&M was moved to a different home. To be honest, my emotions have been really raw and it's one of the reasons I stopped blogging.

Part of the pain comes from the fact that nearly nothing about his leaving was the way we had prayed would turn out. We have one blessing we cling to: our choice to do what was best for him has blessed another infertile couple with the opportunity to adopt.

In the past few weeks since we announced our decision not to adopt him and his subsequent leaving, I've noticed a pattern of sorts with my friends and acquaintances. People's responses tend to fall into the following categories:

The person who has never dealt with a loss this profound and has no idea how to deal with us and our grief so they ignore us or still spend time with us but avoid the topic like the plague.

The person who feels that because we made the decision, it didn't hurt to lose him. These people made thoughtless, hurtful comments as we were preparing ourselves for the loss and continue to make comments when we are overcome with grief.

The person who secretly feels we didn't do the right thing. These people are pretty easy to spot because they would ask us all the time "how can you not want him?" or "how can you not love him?" or "he's so precious! I just don't see how you can give him away."

The people who think that because he lives with another family, our loss is minimal. Obviously these people don't understand how deeply we loved him and how much we miss him. When I talk about our loss, I've been told by well-meaning people, "at least he's not dead."

Let me tell all of you that we feel his loss. He is living with another family, but we've been denied contact by the very people who are supposed to be protecting our interests in this matter. We get mail for him and appointment reminder phone calls for him nearly daily, and each time my heart breaks a little more. We don't have the luxury of forgetting that we used to have our children's brother in our home.

Add to all of this the fact that we have to guide our other three children through the grieving process. Silly asks several times a day about his "bubby". Tutu has named her dolly her baby brother's name and has a panic attack when the doll is out of her sight. Creative still doesn't fully understand and has a hard time accessing the emotions he feels, so he acts out and withdraws in turns.

To the person who has never experienced this loss: I don't want, need or expect grand gestures. A simple hug and "I'm sorry" will suffice. Making a play date to help us have fun is perfect.

To the person who feels that since it was our choice, it doesn't hurt: you're wrong. We made the choice that was best for everyone, but it was a painful choice and I've second-guessed myself a LOT during this ordeal. There are moments when I can see the benefits, but there are plenty of moments I wonder if I did the right thing.

To the person who feels we didn't do the right thing: shame on you! You could have supported us better when we begged you for help. You could have believed us when we told you how hard it was . YOU could have been the one who made the difference that allowed us to keep him. Instead you stand in judgment. I'm tired of your hurtful comments. If you want to judge, go ahead. But know that God is the ultimate judge and will judge you for your judging attitude.

And, to the person who feels that because he's alive, it doesn't hurt: you explain to my one year old that his brother is just gone forever, but not dead. You explain to my body in the middle of the night that the baby is gone and it's ok to sleep. You explain to my arms that ache to hold him that he's still alive somewhere and they shouldn't ache. You explain to my tears that they shouldn't fall when I open the mailbox and see his name. You explain to this gnawing, aching hole in my heart that even though we may never see this child again, it's really "better" that he's not dead.

Giving up this baby is one of the most difficult and painful decisions I've ever made. For the few dear people who've been checking in, thank you. Our family needs friends and family like you.

To everyone else: before you speak, try to put yourself in a similar situation. If you can't fathom giving up a child, try to imagine something incredibly gut-wrenching. Maybe imagine that to save your child's life, you had to let him/her be adopted by strangers.

We may look like we're back to normal, but we're not. We're figuring out a new normal. We aren't in constant heartbreak, but we are still heartbroken. Deep down, we know this was the right decision, but in the day-to-day dealings of life and telling people/offices over and over it's often easy to forget that. There are still many a night I cry myself to sleep aching for my baby.

Then there are the moments I hear the phantom cries and have to remind myself he's gone. Forever. And we have no guarantee we'll ever see him again.

Goodbye my baby. I love and miss you more than you'll ever know, but my role in your life was to be a bridge between your birth family and your forever family. I just never expected your path would be made out of pieces of my broken heart.