To say the last five months have been difficult would be an incredible understatement. I don’t have the words to describe the feelings any more which is probably a significant reason I have stopped sharing the words. I find myself becoming more brittle, less open. And that’s hard. I don’t want to share right now or maybe I just can’t. And as I feel the bitterness creep in and take over my heart, I know I need to make a change. That’s my personal baggage right now and I am making changes to be a better person in order to keep my heart from hardening.
That’s not really what this is about tonight. Tonight, with Emerson being gone from this world for five months, I have a story to tell.
Sorkin has gotten into this wonderful stage. He tells stories. He also likes to talk about Emerson a lot. These two have not yet overlapped. Conversations about Emerson are real: what we did together, how he got sick, when he died, and where he now. Sorkin’s stories are incredibly elaborate. While they may have elements of real life (mom is in the story), the plot is fantastical: mom is a ninja who can fly.
In early July, we were driving up to my parents’ house to hang out for a night, not an uncommon occurrence especially since Emerson died. I usually am exhausted when I finish work these days and just want to lay on the couch; going up to my parents means both that I cannot just lay around (my mom might argue this) and that my kids will have people to play with since a few of my brothers and sisters are at home. We were just getting off the highway when Sorkin started talking about Emerson, but this conversation was different.
Sorkin started by saying Emerson is in Heaven playing with my baby sister right now. He then started talking about Emerson and his baby sister. I stopped him and said Sorkin, you know you don’t have a baby sister, right? Sorkin’s response was well not yet mom. Matt and I just shared a glance. Sorkin did not know that we were expecting.
That’s right, in the midst of this incredibly difficult, emotional, exhausting journey of grief and death we are pregnant: due March 1st. Another little miracle just like my Emerson. But unique in its own way– in a way I am unable to articulate (see, no good with words right now). An unexpected gift in grief.
So, we told Sorkin about the baby a few weeks after his story: mostly so he would stop jumping on my uterus. He has been so much fun with this pregnancy. He talks to the baby every day and tells the baby he loves it. He talks about how he is going to take care of the baby and I think he is pretty serious. He came with to my first doctor appointment which included a dating ultrasound. When he saw baby he said “She’s so beautiful and she’s growing!” oh yes, he is convinced this baby is a girl. I keep reminding him that we don’t get to choose and it might be a boy. He says no, it’s a sister.
Sorkin’s behavior reminds me so much of Emerson’s with Lincoln. Emerson loved Lincoln and could get him to stop crying every time just by rolling over and checking on Lincoln. It was such an incredible relationship, and it tears my heart to pieces that Lincoln and this new baby and Sorkin have to miss out on having Emerson actively here as their big brother. He taught them a lot though and we will always tell them about Emerson. He will live on through our stories and our tears and our laughter. My sunshine. Below is a picture of Emerson and Lincoln during our family photo shoot 5 months ago today. You can see so clearly how much Lincoln loved his oldest brother. It kills me that he will have no memories of his own and that our new baby will never meet Emerson in this life.
I miss you so much Emerson. I cannot believe it has been 5 months since I held you in my arms, smelled you, brushed your hair, bathed you, sang you a song, and so much more. I love you so much my sunshine. Keep watching over us my love.