When we went to the hospital to drop of blankets on Saturday, we were told we couldn’t put them in the room where they are stored, because was using it. The breavement room. In use means that while we were standing there, at the desk, just a few hundred feet away someone’s world was falling apart.
Room 13. When we checked in (three years ago today) everyone said “they are in room 13” like it meant something. And it clearly did. There was a look. A look they would give us. A look I now give.
The room is in use. Where the nurses painstakingly made these molds of his hands and feet. Where I sat and rocked and sang to Noah the lullabies I sing to Owen and Sam for the first and only time – there was another family. Making their first and only memories.
So I come home. And I sit, and I hug his bear. And I touch the molds of his hands and feet, the blanket embroidered with his name, and the box with his ashes.
And I think about all the grief and love that room holds. And I think of the family, by now home without their baby.
Room 13. They give it to us, because we’ve already had the worst luck in the world.