I usually don’t talk about Jensen’s big hands, just his perfect feet. Sometimes I don’t have the words to describe each of his features, in my mind they’re each just so perfect that there are no words to encapsulate him. This past week, I dove into Jensen’s drawer and looked over his hospital folder. These big, bear hands just reached for me to look more closely. I never realized how ginormous they were until the last time I saw them. We also printed off a few of his pictures to hang around the house and the one that sits next to Anthony really shocked me. His hands looked bigger than they do on his prints. They’re chubby and really long actually. You can’t see that in the prints, so you’ll just have to trust me. Those hands would definitely be bigger than mine. I hope he’d give better high-fives than me too.

Five whole months. He would’ve been using his hands so much by now. Holding his bottle, gripping my fingers hard, and probably flailing them around. I’m sure they’d be right by his face all the time, just like he had them during all the ultrasounds. He would for sure be a thumb sucker, but that’s okay. I can just imagine how he would have grown by now and I would be seeing this beautiful boy with his hand in his mouth and slobber everywhere. Then when he’d get our attention he’d just give us this ornery, big, gummy smile with his hand still stuck in there. I can just picture it…

Honestly, I didn’t imagine me being able to make it to the five month mark without Jensen with me. Sometimes I think my heart is so broken that it’s going to stop too. Kind of like how older couples die just months between each other. I feel like that’s going to be me. Everyday I’m amazed that I wake up, feel it beating, and can get out of bed. The pain of outliving my child stings with every breath I take. I try to fill the house with him each day so I have a reason to smile. Most times I wish I could just stay on my couch curled up in my blanket with all my candles on and just be. Not doing anything, but being warm and present. Those days are necessary most of the time, but I have to get up. I have to work and try to keep living the fullest life I can.

Then the beginning of the month happens and his month-day. Tuesdays suck and we’re getting to the anniversary points of my pregnancy. This first year is just going to be a fog of pain. At five months, I can tell you that’s all it has been. As I’ve said before, there’s light. But that fog is always present. Always so thick. I wonder if it will ever go away, but what happens if it does? The grief and aftermath of losing a child stays forever, but what will happen when it lightens? I question myself every turning of the week and month. Then I think, there will always be this overlying fog I just learn how to navigate it. I guess you could say the fog lights will turn be a little brighter, but it still surrounds me.

I’ve never thought about grief and navigating it in perception to a car going through the fog. It makes sense though. I’m on this road laid out for me, grief is the fog that always surrounds me, and the fog lights are my outlook for what’s right in front of me. Maybe I’ll think about this more and make an awesome analogy. Or maybe not. It still feels like I’m drowning in an ocean, but I’m literally being forced to keep swimming. Kind of why I like the car in the fog. I have to keep driving. It’s not like I can pull over and just wait for it to disappear.

Five months on the fifth. Today sucks. I wish I had more words of hope and promise to offer everyone, but there’s none. It’s a little closer to the six month mark, half a year, and a lot further away from being with Jensen. At five months post loss, my minds letting me remember the days leading and following his birth. Literally is like being pushed of a mountain of hope and happiness to the deepest and darkest pit of the world. I guess my words of hope and pictures of promise are all around me as I look. Jensen fills my house and my heart constantly. I see his hands snuggling his blanket, close to his face, as always. The word ‘hope’ literally hangs on the wall next to me. Little J’s are sprinkled across the room, letting me know he’s always right here with me. Especially on this day.

Jensen, I hope you’re celebrating your big five month-day in heaven. Your big sticker on your belly boasting you’ve reached another milestone up there. Make sure they take your picture so I can see when I get up there with you. Be proud of yourself. Feel all my love that I constantly send to you. Look down on me with your hand in your big, gummy smile. Let happiness and warmth continuously surround you my sweet, little boy.