Still breathing, and it still hurts (Logan came home)

Today my son came home. Logan was delivered to my doorstep via registered mail. Priority Mail. My delivery lady had no idea she was carrying my broken heart in that quaint little box. I had no idea that the door bell was going to announce the arrival of more sorrow and tears. David and I stared at the box. Do we open it? What's inside? This must be morbid to look. Ultimately David opened the box, convinced there would be a clear bag with our son's remains. There was not. There was a plastic black box. It looked like a trash can to me. He opened that box, and to my horror there was a small plastic bowl, much like a shallow butter bowl, packed between paper towels. We didn't open the bowl. My son arrived in a friggin' tupperware bowl. How could they? Why wasn't there a warning? Why didn't they send us a letter telling us that he'd be arriving soon (since we thought it would be August or later). Why didn't they tell us what to expect when he arrived? I thought he'd be in an urn. I felt like I'd been punched. I felt like I witnessed some horror that I had to turn my eyes from. Where's the respect? Where is the sensitivity to my intense sorrow. I was horrified enough that they were going to mail my sweet little baby, but in a plastic bowl? I just didn't know. The pain drags on. Now I have to go buy an urn. Where do you get those, eBay, Sam's Club, Wal-Mart? "Oh hey, I need a mini urn for my cremated infant, you got any?" I'm just horrified at the amount of injustice that seems to get slapped onto us day after day after day. OUR BABY DIED!! Don't we get some grace? Don't we get a pass? Don't we get something other than pathetic attempts at spoken comfort and uncomfortable looks? I need a break! I need something to go right for me. I don't want any more horrible reminders of the injustice that was dealt to me. I want to find my peace. I want my son back. I know I can't have him back, but I want him back. The irony of this event today was that, being as my son was due this Tuesday, he could have actually come home today...alive. And just in case the small box was an awful reminder that I am not pregnant, my FitPregnancy Magazine arrived in the mail today too. Thanks for that, universe. I needed one more punch in the gut. I bawled my eyes out when we opened the box. When it arrived I was numb. I just stared at it. But once the box opened, the flood gates did too. I felt like it was happening all over again. My pregnancy feels like a different life. My husband said today that "it's been a lifetime of grief" and I have to agree. We've had enough sadness to fill up an entire lifetime, in just 3 1/2 short months. I know I keep saying this, but I hate this. I really truly do. I have never hated anything this much before. It's beyond hatred. I don't know what is beyond that, but it's beyond what is beyond that. I just want this to go away. I want it over with. I want it to never have happened. I don't want to hurt anymore. I don't want to cry anymore. I don't want to miss a "should've been" or a hope of a child who never was. I don't want to see the deep sorrow in my husbands eyes anymore. I don't want to have to fake smiles, and pretend that my life hasn't been flipped upside down and imploded in on itself. I don't want to answer the shallow "how are you" questions with a sigh and a shrug. I don't want to know that my son is in a little box in my bedroom because I just don't know what to do with him right now, or if I can do anything with him at all. I don't want the few tangible memories I have of him to be in a sad little box. I don't want an afghan that I can never wrap him in. I don't want this monstrous hole in my heart where a little boy's smile, my hopes and dreams should be. I don't want this. I don't know what to do with this, or who I am supposed to be, or how I should feel or act. I don't know me anymore. I'm scared. I'm eyeball deep in a sorrow that I don't understand. I know that no matter how my son arrived home today, he would still be dead, and I would still find all of it unacceptable. This is not acceptable to me.