There I sit listening to the sounds of my rainbow over the baby monitor as she naps in her room, in her crib-Avery's room, Avery's crib-for the first time, while working on a photo scrapbook for Avery when the phone rings.
- "Hello, may I speak with Crystal?"
- "Hi my name is (something I can't remember) from the evidence department at the police station"
My heart jumps into my throat. Why in the hell are they calling after all this time?
- "I'm calling to let you know that since the investigation into your daughters death is closed, you are able to come pick up the evidence we took from your home."
WTF? Why bow after all this time?
After a year and nine months of her passing and a year and a half since we were told their investigation was closed they decide they don't need her belongings in evidence anymore. I've spent every day since her passing working to accept it. I've been working on letting go of guilt. I've been working on pushing flashbacks of that day far, far from my mind. And in one quick 5 minute phone call, I feel like I'm taking a million steps back.
Do you know how hard it is to still not feel like we were looked down on because our daughter died in our home? Do you know how awful it feels knowing that police and crime scene investigators went through our home to look for evidence? Do you know how hard it is to accept that we weren't allowed to be alone with our daughter in the hospital, instead detectives stood against the wall as we said our goodbyes?
All of these things have been pushed far back but now they are on the forefront of my mind and I can't shake them. I'm stuck on the fact that some of my daughters belongings have been sitting in evidence and that I have to go tomorrow to pick them up. I have no idea what to expect. All the person on the phone told me was they had her bassinet, which I do not want back nor do I ever want to see it again and some miscellaneous items taken from her crib. I knew they took things that were in her crib. But it still doesn't make sense, she wasn't sleeping in her crib. I'm not even sure what was in her crib.
In my head I imagine a box with her name sitting on a shelf collecting dust in some dark closet of a room in the police department. What am I to expect to go through tomorrow? Will I have to go into that dark room? Will I have to look through her things there? Will I have to sign for each piece of "evidence?" Will the person that give me the stuff have some preconceived notion of me because my daughter died? Will I be looked down on? Will I see the detectives who investigated our case? They were amazing and truly never made us feel like suspects or bad people but what will I say to them? Will I make it back home before I lose it? Or at least to the car?
I hate the unexpected. I hate that I'll never know what's hiding behind the corner waiting to attack me when I least expect it. Once again, the grief monster strikes. Just when you think you've tamed it and learned how to keep it in its place, a place where you've learned to manage it and keep it at bay, it breaks free and attacks you. It reminds you that you are not in control, that like love, grief cannot be controlled or suppressed. Like love, grief hits us when we least expect it and puts you in a tailspin. Like love, its a journey that never ends.
Update: I love living in a small town. A family friend contacted me to let me know her nephew, a police officer, could pick the stuff up for us. Turns out I'm friends with his wife. So thankful that I don't have to go pick up the stuff at the PD. Thank you so much!