When Brian and I were metamorphosing a plain white room with miscellaneous "toss it here" things into a three-colored jungle adventure for Colton we never realized how much more it represented.
Brian and I worked for close to a month on the room. We dedicated a little time here and there and worked when we could. We painted the room first, three different colors coming together for our little monkey. The bottom color brown, like the jungle floor; the middle strip cream, to be lined with monkey and vine decals; and the top a fun green like the canopy of the jungle. Above his changing table (well, his dresser with a changing pad -- saving space!) was a decal "Colton" with a monkey hanging from the end. Above his beautiful crib a decal "No More Monkeys Jumping On The Bed". (Do we see the irony?)
We changed all the light sockets to black to match his crib and furniture. We received a beautiful black and tan rocker/glider from my friend and set it up in the corner. All the clothes were washed and folded, drawer tags indicating "0-3, 3-6, 6-9, 9-12" hung from the handles of the drawers to distinguish where to find what. Diapers were stacked, lotions organized, and nursing pads on stand-by.
His beautiful crib, bought by Nana and Poppa, was set up and beyond perfect for his room. The bedding from Great-Granny & Poppa placed with care. His monkey lovies in each corner of his bed. His heartbeat monkey from our 3D ultrasound laying in wait for him.
I had just assembled his play pen, which would be used in the living room for his naps and to change him. It was the perfect match to his room and had a bassinet, changing table, and diaper/wipes holder. All fully stocked, sitting in the middle of his room, ready to go.
It was perfect.
Then he was gone.
Even now I am writing this with tears in my eyes and a bleeding, aching heart. The room that was built with such love, excitement, and anticipation was now a room of torture and doom. A stabbing reminder of how close we were and how empty we are. The crib that should hold our peaceful resting baby; the changing table where we would dress and coo with our little boy; the rocker where I'd nurse my son and spend the most intimate quiet moments with him. Now just a cruel reminder of what we lost.
I had to go into that room the day I found out Colton was gone. I had to pick blankets and clothing for the hospital. For the pictures we would take to memorialize him. The only thing we would have after that day. I picked the outfit he was supposed to come home in. The onsie said "Handsome Like Daddy". The blanket I chose was the brown monkey blankie from Aunt Christy and Austin, his future-girlfriend-to-be. The little legs and arms of the monkey hung off the blanket. (There are spots that are almost worn flat from me mindlessly rubbing on them as I was lost in an empty continuum of space.) I was in a daze that whole time; completely numb. I closed the door behind me.
I had to go into that room a few days later. This time it was to pick the items to bury with my son. I catch my breath even typing this. I felt dead that day. My son was no longer in my body, yet he also wasn't in his crib where he belonged. My mind wandered to where he was and I almost threw up, nausea overcoming me. I felt like a horrible mom leaving him behind in a cold dark room. I knew he was gone, rationally. Rationality doesn't come into play in situations like this though.
Brian went in with me and I vaguely remember thinking "just get this done". We decided to bury him in the same clothes. I chose to pick a different blanket, though. The other was mine, would always be mine, and I would not part with it. I chose one that grandma had bought for him. A playful white blanket with green under-lining and monkeys and other animals all over it. Something beautiful, fun, soft, and comforting. I grabbed his monkey lovies from his crib. And I grabbed a binky from Aunt Christy with his name "COLTON" across the front. I walked out and closed the door.
After that the door stayed closed for a while. I couldn't even look at it without crumbling inside. Without a shocking pang generating from my heart and radiating through every nerve in my body. I threatened everyone in the family that great bodily harm would become them if they opened that door. I could not imagine what that would due to me and I didn't want to find out.
I had a few friends visit who wanted to see ther room. I either let them go on their own or I steadied myself for it. In other words, I voided myself of all feeling and emotion. I stared into that deep abyss so very far away where nothing could touch me. I didn't breath again or return until that door was closed again.
That lasted for months.
Not too long ago Brian gently mentioned that the sun was beginning to shine more and it would be nice to open all the doors in the house and let the light shine in. I knew what he meant. And I finally conceded.
I braced myself when I came in that next day. I knew the room would probably be open, and it was. I just glanced that direction and kept going. That happened for a few weeks.
One day after work, while home alone (I wanted to be alone), I went in to his room. I grabbed the heartbeat monkey from his crib and I sat in the rocker. I just sat for a minute, then I squeezed the little box. Swish, swish, swish, swish ... I listened a few times. It was my sons heartbeat, beautiful and strong. A few tears trailed down my face; surprisingly I didn't lose control. I didn't crumble to a sobbing mess, as I'd feared. I didn't die, which I really began to believe a broken heart could do. I gently sat the monkey back in the chair and left his room. And left the door open.
His room is frequently open now. I do not go in there, though. I walk by, but don't glance in. The room doesn't hurt like it did before. But I'm definitely not okay with it either.
The nursery isn't just a room. Every hope and dream we had for Colton began there. Every ounce of love we mixed with that paint and covered the room in; every labor of love to assemble, arrange, and prepare for his arrival. His nursery was the anticipation of a life with our son, the joy of another person to add to our family, an expression of our love.
When we lost him the room became a bitter reminder of all that should have been and all that was lost. We hope to someday try again and I don't know what I'll do with the room. At first I thought I'd leave everything exactly like it was and just bring the baby home (God willing). Then I thought I didn't want anything monkey in that room and would get all new bedding and clothing. Now I'm in the middle. Keep some, leave some, and decide when the time comes what to do. Either the baby will have a new theme or he/she will inherit some things from big brother.
Either way, whatever we do, we will refill it with love and hopes and dreams. Hopefully someday it will be filled with the joys of life again, not the reminders of loss.
Until then, though, I walk by, don't look too long, and pray for a day it doesn't hurt so bad.
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