Without a Word_ How a Boy's Unspoken Love Changed Everything - Jill Kelly [63]
His skin was amazing; so soft and white, like a newborn baby’s. It was so unique that after we laid him to rest, the funeral director—a family friend I used to babysit for—commented, “Hunter had the most beautiful skin I have ever seen.” I recalled Hunter’s little brown mole on his right hip and the tiny scar on his belly from where his feeding tube had been inserted. Other than that, his entire body was unblemished.
And then I remembered his hands. Even his hands were special. One of the disease markers for most Krabbe children is the clenched fist. But Hunter’s hands weren’t like that at all. We massaged his hands constantly, elongating his chunky fingers. To keep him from drawing his fingers into a clenched fist, we made sure he was always holding a soft stuffed animal or blanket.
I always wanted his hand in mine. My memory at that moment was so vivid that I could almost feel his strong grip. After a long night of hand-holding, he usually wouldn’t let go in the morning. Whenever I would say good-bye and try to walk away, he’d squeeze my fingers. He didn’t want me to leave. I never wanted to leave him either.
And I didn’t want the little bird I was holding to leave. But it did, and the profoundness of the moment wrapped itself around me. Although I was not with Hunter when he took his last breath, God was. Somehow, the privilege of holding that helpless bird while he took his last breath, and the precious memories the experience provided, began to mend my broken heart. It was a moment of grace I knew I would never forget.
Chapter 16
“My Heart Doesn’t Look
the Same Anymore”
My heart doesn’t look the same anymore, Mommy.” My ten-year-old daughter, Erin, tilted her head and started to draw a broken heart with her fingers in the air. “It looks like this, and it has a big hole in it. Because Hunter’s not here, I have a huge hole in my heart that can’t be filled.”
A fresh wave of grief swept over me as I grabbed my daughter and hugged her. I had been praying that God would show me how to help my daughters in their grieving. They dearly loved their brother. I could only guess what their little minds and hearts were thinking and feeling. I laid my head on Erin’s, and we both started to cry.
“I’m nothing without Hunter, Mommy.” She spoke exactly what I felt. “I am who I am because of him. I know Jesus because of Hunter.”
“Someday your heart will be full again, Erin, someday….”
I felt so inadequate. What could I say or do to comfort my daughters when I needed to be comforted? We all needed comfort. The mother in me wanted to take away their pain. Yet I knew they had to experience loss and walk through grief, too. They needed to learn what only a broken heart could teach, but it was so hard watching them, even knowing that somehow it was for their good.
In the days following Hunter’s death, Erin was quiet. She didn’t talk about Hunter very often. In this way she was responding a lot like her dad. Camryn, on the other hand, was very emotional and outspoken. She wore her heart on her sleeve, just as I did.
At bedtime, a little over a month after Hunter died, Camryn asked me, “Mommy, will Hunter recognize us when we get to heaven? How old will Hunter be?” Before I could answer, I was bombarded with more questions.
“When I see Hunter in heaven, will he look like this?” She was holding a framed picture of her hugging Hunter. He had on a baseball hat and was looking right into the camera. It was such a great shot. I remembered when that picture was taken. It was Erin Marie’s birthday party that day, and we’d had a blast.
As we continued our discussion, Camryn boldly exclaimed, “Mommy, I want Hunter to have oxygen in heaven. And I don’t want him to walk there.”
Erin added, “I liked his oxygen, Mommy. It wasn’t a bad thing, and Hunter always looked so cute.”
I tried