Now for the hard part... going back to the house to pack our remaining things. We never went back to sleep at our house after Luke died. I just couldn't do it. We've stopped in from time to time just to grab a few things. Even doing that, I'm awash with emotions. One step into the familiar sights and smells, and it all comes back. It feels like our life just dropped off there. We walk in and I'm just waiting to hear his cry. Why isn't his swing in its old familiar spot? Subconsciously, I am wondering where he is. I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that he is gone.
I glance into the laundry room and remember changing him on the dryer. He loved lying on top of that while being changed. The vibration soothed him. I can still picture him stretching out his little legs as I fed him in the reclining chair in the living room. And upstairs, seeing the rocker where we sat together while I sang--of all songs--, "Nearer My God, to Thee" before bedtime every night, is so emotional that I freeze inside. The winter jacket he never got to wear is still hanging in the closet.
How can I forget the EMTs holding him on the landing, his little body draped in a sheet as they brought him downstairs to the ambulance. Every time I go in our bedroom, where I found him that night, I shudder from the trauma of the most horrific moment of my life. These images continue to overshadow the good memories that happened in that house. I'm told that it won't always be that way. That one day, the good memories will outweigh and outnumber the terrible ones. But for now, going back there feels like returning to the scene of a crime.
We would so appreciate your prayers for the coming weeks; being back where the tragedy happened makes the pain overwhelming to us. Thank you so much.