My Dear Girl,
I hate today. I hate this month. I hate what's coming.
Two weeks from today is February 19th. Two weeks from today is exactly four months since we lost you. Two weeks from today is your due date. The day we were supposed to meet you. The day we would finally get to hold you in our arms, to see your face, to kiss your head. The day all of our dreams were supposed to come true.
We spent five agonizing, exciting, terrified, miserable, suspenseful months awaiting this day. We spent five months wondering what you'd look like, who you'd favor. Whose laugh would you have? Whose eyes would you get? Would you have Daddy's curls? Would you have Mommy's nose? Would you be the perfect mix of both of us? Who would you become? We spent five months dreaming and planning, imagining and preparing. We spent five months looking forward to your arrival. We counted the weeks, the days, the months. Time was moving unbelievably fast but agonizingly slow at the same time. We were not prepared, but we'd never been more ready.
And then...
We spent the last four painful, heartbreaking months dreading this day. No more planning, no more dreaming, no more imagining or preparing. We never got to know what you looked like, who you favored, whose eyes or nose you had. We never got to hold you, to see your face, to kiss you. But, you were real, sweet girl. You existed. To the rest of the world, you were only ever an idea, a thought, something that would be here sometime but in the grand scheme of things, not really change much. But for me, your mama, you were everything. I felt you move. I felt you hiccup. I felt your feet kicking, your fists punching. You liked spaghetti and bread and every kind of carb there is. You made my back hurt, my clothes tight, my bladder full. You were real. And to us, you were a person.
I hate that your daddy never got to feel what I felt. I hate that he never got to feel those little tiny flutters and those soft little kicks. He never got to feel life growing inside him, and he never got to feel it from the outside, either. You're like a little secret that only I understood. A secret that only you and I shared. We knew each other. We nourished each other. We lived for each other. And I'm so sorry, Baby Girl. I'm sorry that I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry that I didn't know. I'm sorry that you had to die for me to know anything was wrong. You were healthy, but I was not. And even if you weren't, you would have been perfect.
I go through this month with the heaviest heart I've ever had. I spend each day trying not to cry at your memory. How can you miss someone you never technically met? I wonder constantly if I will ever emotionally be able to get pregnant again. Will I ever not be scared? Will I ever not be sad? How on Earth will I ever be able to go through the daily injections I will need to carry any sibling of yours to full term? How do I endure everything I need to to bring a healthy baby into this world?
I keep asking myself and other people, "how do you psych yourself up for these shots every day?" and they all tell me that they just remind themselves that it's for their baby. And until today, or yesterday, or sometime very recently, I couldn't quite get myself there. But, at some point, I was hit with the realization that if they had told me that's what I would have had to do to save you, I would have done it. No questions asked. I would have done anything. I would have endured anything. I would have suffered anything they threw at me if I could have just brought you safely into this world. But, I didn't get that option. So, Baby Girl, for you, I can endure this. I can do this. I can do what I need to do to bring a little brother or sister into this world for you. And I know that my love for you and the memory of you will help me on the journey.
I love you, sweet angel. Rest easy.
Love,
Mama
