The rest was a blur, my heart dropped into my stomach. It's a day early, I wasn't ready! I don't know what to do, or say, I just look around at the people around me and look for guidance. At this point I can not make a clear decision on what day it is, or what time I can have a private moment with my husband to pick up my daughters remains.
REMAINS! What a horrible word...what do you mean remains? What remains of my infant child? NO! Its not what remains! It is HER! All of her. My Lucielle Diane Lawrence... her entire little self.
I spent the rest of the day until 4:30 distracting my mind, because I am not sure what is going to happen when I get there to get my baby. It was very technical, and informal. The funeral home is always a quiet place, and extremely somber. We walked into a room full of people working in small cubical areas with glass fronts. As we walked in, the whole room stopped and just looked at us. Their faces say it all. "Oh, there is the poor couple picking up the 4:30 cremation "BABY LAWRENCE" that is written on our white board, that's too bad"
We give an obligatory smile at the room, and say we are here to pick up our little baby Lucielle... and Megan springs into action. Taking us out into the funeral home with a tiny white box, the bonneted blanket we sent Lucy off in, and some paperwork. It hadn't set in yet, because I had to "sign" for my own child. Signing for the right to have my baby back. Each little detail of this seems so big, that dropping my signature on a piece of paper feels as if I am writing a novel with inkwell and pen. As I am doing this she hands Lucielle to Jeremy and I can hear him start to cry. His body shaking and holding breaths coming from his nose because his lips are pursed just so that a wail won't intrude the still air.
As I look up, Jeremy can't contain the tears and we slowly walk towards the door. At this point we are so weak and the world is so surreal, the door doesn't budge open. The muggy air slaps our face as we take our little girl out into the world for the first time... Embracing and crying without a care of who's watching, we are oblivious.
He sets Lucielle in my lap, pressing her to my tummy to keep her tight in the car. I look down at this tiny white box. My daughter is in a BOX. Her name is spelled wrong, and she is in a box. As a parent, you want to spend your time teaching your children they don't belong in a box. That they are creative in their own right, independent, and DAMN IT ...their own person. Children do not belong in a box. MY Lucy... left me a beautiful little girl who should have had an entire life time ahead of her, and NOW she is in a WHITE BOX.
Of course, the sweet people at Amos, with beautiful intentions cremated our angel for free as a courtesy service for premature babies. What a wonderful service to people who are hurting. But damn it, I didn't want this story! I didn't ask for this story, and I want it re-written. I didn't ask to have my daughter in a box, I asked to have her for always, only till she had to put me in a box, like it is intended so. I need her, I want her, and dear lord, NOT IN A BOX.
As I cry out for her, and declare to whomever is listening to me, that I could have learned whatever lesson Lucy's death was suppose to bring me, and that this is the NOT the story I wanted to write. I don't need it to happen like this. Begging... I promise I will learn the lesson! Just bring her back! Just bring her back to me...
Lucy's reunited with her family. Not how I intended her to be, but how it must be. In a temporary white box, with her name misspelled... Home.
When you lose something you can't replace...When you love someone but it goes to waste.
Could it be worse?-ColdPlay