Since Ty went back to work, I have been driving him there, meeting him there for lunch, then taking him home after work. I love having some extra time with Ty, but the silence in my car when I drive back home after dropping Ty off or leaving him after lunch is almost deadly. If I let myself entertain the thought for too long, I do all I can to make it home safely so I can run into the house and cry in our bedroom.
Jensen should be here. He should be in my car in his car seat. I should see him sleeping, sitting there or crying. Parents often complain about their babies crying, but I would love to hear my baby cry. I never will. Jensen should be with me in the morning and at lunchtime. He should be with me when Ty gets home from work.
Then I get home from taking Ty to work or after having lunch with him. Thankfully, we’ve had family with us recently so I don’t always come home alone right now, but I know eventually I will and it will become my normal. When I get home, it’s silence also. What was supposed to be a season of chaos in adjusting to having a newborn is now a season of sorrow, grief and mourning. I struggle to remember how I filled my time before this, but a lot of that time was recently filled with full-time school responsibilities, and then preparing for three weeks for Jensen’s arrival.
I look up and see a sign in our living room that says “I lift my eyes up to the Lord.” My sister-in-law changed this sign while we were in the hospital. When I left our house the morning of May 29, the sign said “Tortella Party of 3.” Everything we had ready for Jensen that was around the house is now, I assume, in his nursery. The bassinet was in our bedroom, the bathtub and bath toys were in the guest bathroom, the diaper caddy was in the living room. The absence of material things seems to add to the silence.