This is Viggo's old nursery, now a prayer and meditation room.


When we brought Viggo home, his room became a sacred space. Upon entering, more than a few guests commented on the feeling that they were on holy ground. Perhaps because Viggo was so generous, so accepting of all who wished to hold him in their arms. In return, he would you in his gaze--the most patient, accepting, loving gaze. The room held, and still holds, a palpably peaceful energy.


Somehow, on the day after Viggo's memorial service, and with the help of my grandmother (who lost two sons in the span of a week, one of them my Dad) and my Aunt Mel (whose husband was the other son who died a week after my Dad), we dismantled his nursery and transformed it into a different kind of sacred space.


I was worrying that morning about how the kids would react, about whether I could manage it, about what we were going to do with all the medical and baby supplies. And then a kind acquaintance showed up, unbidden, and offered to take everything off my hands that very day and handle distribution to those who most needed it.


And so, with the wind at my back, I took each child to the nursery, one at a time. We lit incense and talked about our memories in the nursery with Viggo. They were both very happy that this would be a quiet place for them to come anytime they wish, and that we would keep Viggo's special items here so that they could hold them whenever they want. Even my four-year-old, who struggles mightily with any form of change (including rearranging furniture), was at peace. In fact, he told someone recently that The Meditation Room is his favorite room in the house.


In the mornings when I wake, I am drawn to this room. I am drawn to the sunrise visible through the window. I am drawn into my memories of watching sunrises with Viggo in the rocking chair, as Winter turned to Spring, and Spring to Summer.


I wish for just one more sunrise with him.


I grieve the finality of his absence. I journal, I weep, I pray.


I connect with him here.


Today, Viggo would have been 7 months old. I wish I could make a big fuss in the voice I used for him, that momma-adores-you-singsong-voice that would have cooed at how big he was getting, would have cajoled him for a smile, would have watched with joy as his gaze met mine, sapphire eyes twinkling, head moving excitedly back and forth. I wish the big kids could argue about which dessert to get to celebrate his 7 months. I wish we could sing Happy Birthday again.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

part 2: a birthday story

Image
It was dark outside the hospital windows when the little squeezes began. I hadn't felt them in years, but I knew them immediately. And with them, you drew me inside of myself. Inside of you. Inside of us, together. I remember saying to your Dad, "I'm going inside now." It was effortless, automatic, as if I were an expert meditater. I miss those hours of quiet oneness with you. An experience unique in all my years of living, in all my days of motherhood. On the outside, the adhesive and wires connected to my belly began to set off alarms. Our nurse ran in and out of the room, over and over. But you and I, we remained steady. Together, wrapped in a focused embrace, almost beyond the reach of the voice that ordered, "Turn to your other side!" "Get on your hands and knees!" We moved to the commands of the caller, but the dance belonged to us. B reathing in, we oxygenated. Breathing out, we released all fear. At one point, the nurse hit the button and
Read more
Image
Advisory: This blog piece is an intimate description Viggo's home funeral. It contains imagery that may be difficult to read and see. When our third child Viggo was born early via emergency c-section, his dad accompanied him to “the nest” where neonatologists immediately hooked him up to CPAP and leads to monitor his vitals. Theron stayed with Viggo until he was safely tucked into his NICU isolette, when he finally slipped away just long enough to find me in my hospital room and wheel me down to see our newborn. From those first moments onward, we hovered around our son, leaving only to sleep. We learned to do all of his care, how to administer his medicines and navigate the machines and treatments he needed hour by hour, minute by minute. When he had surgery, we accompanied him as far as we were allowed, then waited just outside in the OR waiting room. When Viggo was admitted to the PICU, we took turns sleeping in his room. We never left him.  This level of attachment came natural
Read more

A Framework for Medical Decision-Making When a Cure is Not Possible

Image
This p ost was original published by Courageous  P arents Network on March 2 0, 2 023. This post is my first attempt at distilling into words the medical decision-making framework my husband and I developed during our son Viggo’s life. It was the plane we built while flying at 30,000 feet. I like to think that it actually helped us glide safely to the ground when, at first, it seemed like a crash landing was inevitable.  Our guiding principles were twofold:  First and foremost, every choice must affirm our son’s dignity and worth as a human being. He was more than a patient, a medical curiosity, or a collection of body systems that could be divided and conquered by an army of subspecialists. He was a beloved son, brother, grandchild, cousin, nephew, neighbor, and member of a community. Second, every choice should minimize  avoidable  trauma and suffering for Viggo, his siblings, and ourselves. As we understood it, there was a baseline of suffering and trauma that came with Viggo’s diag
Read more