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I swallow hard as I face the door to my right, and my heart begins to thud anxiously in anticipation. I don’t want to go inside, but I feel called to; by the memories, by the pain most of all. I have a morbid sense of obligation to revisit the life I once had, and the future I once dreamed of.
Turning the handle, I give the door a shove and flick on the overhead light. Instantly it feels like a knife is being driven deep into my chest, shutting off my airway, shattering my heart even more than it already is. Like the rest of the house, every surface is covered in dust; the small white dresser that sits under the window, the changing table on the opposite wall, the rocker tucked into one corner. The soft, muted lighting gives the room an almost ethereal glow, softening the edges, warming the chill that has settled into my bones.
Stepping further inside the room, I move silently toward the white crib that sits like an alter against the far wall. My hand is shaking when I reach up and grip the rail, realizing at that moment just how very much I’ve lost in such a short amount of time.
The sheet covering the tiny mattress is also white, the bumper and matching quilt covered in soft pink fabric with baby animals scattered over it. The stuffed bear I purchased so long ago sits in one corner, a fluffy purple hippopotamus in another. Nothing has changed in years, and yet it all sits there, as if waiting for the occupant to arrive.
I think about the one picture I have of her and me, the one that hangs in my pseudo-apartment. She was so damn tiny, so breakable, so precious I can still feel the warmth of her skin against mine. My hands trembled when the nurse handed her to me for the first time, and even then I could feel her fragility. Her heart, so small and so damaged, beat slowly against my palm as I nestled her close and kissed her downy head. I can still smell the warm baby scent of her skin, still hear the soft puffs of breath exhaling from her lips. I can still feel the pain like it was yesterday, and hear the gut-wrenching sobs that overwhelmed me when they eventually took her away for good a mere forty-eight hours later.
My eyes swim with tears as I stagger to remain upright, falling heavily into the rocking chair, clutching the stuffed hippopotamus in my arms as I cry. The agony never gets any easier. I hurt just as much as I did back then, only now it’s had time to grow, to expand and fester. My guilt and heartache have done nothing but worsen over time as well. The emptiness I feel on a daily basis is literally eating me away on the inside.
The day baby Charlotte died, I died too. Yes I go on—working, living my life—but I will never be the father I once thought I’d be; loving, supportive, understanding. As the years have passed I’ve become someone new, someone different, someone changed. I’ve become void of most emotion, until a moment like this hits me and I’m as helpless as I was the day she died. I’m nothing more than an empty cavern of regret. Regret that I couldn’t save her. Regret that I still go on, when she cannot. Regret for how I’ve lived my life the past few years.
The list of regrets feels endless sometimes and it’s days like this—when the grief is so very raw—that I wish I’d followed her there: into the great beyond, where I could be the father I once dreamed I’d be.
