Thursday, July 21, 2016

Angel Baby

My Dear Little One,

I was so happy to find out that you were going to join our family. Your daddy and I decided not to tell anyone until we knew your gender, just because. I remember going in for my first ultrasound to see you. You were floating around as you should. Your heartbeat was strong and cute as ever.

My next exam wasn’t until 3 weeks later. It would have been 4, but my OB was going to be out of town. Three weeks was just fine with me. I was so excited to hear that little thump-thump again.

But there wasn’t one.

“We’ll schedule you for an ultrasound just to make sure. It’s possible we just aren’t catching the baby in the right place to get the heartbeat.” That’s what my OB said.

But I knew. I was trying to be hopeful, but I knew.

The ultrasound confirmed what I knew.

You were gone.

As I saw the flat-line pan across the screen, in my head I felt like screaming “why?!” and I did. Once. But that wasn’t what I really wanted to say. The “why” was calmly silenced by a simple phrase, a phrase I never thought I would say to any of my children: “Good-bye, Little One.”

I tried to be strong—at least until your daddy and I got back to the car—but I couldn’t keep back the tears. I cried. The sonographer cried. She gave me a hug and we cried together. She didn’t even know me, but she already knew my pain.

Your daddy held me close. He was so concerned about me. You would’ve been proud of him.

You probably are.

I cried. I cried so much. I cried so hard and so long I got a headache. But I kept crying anyway. I had to. There were no words for my sorrow.

There still aren’t.

We called your grandparents, aunts, and uncles to tell them what happened. They didn’t know you were coming, so we could have kept it to ourselves and no one would have known. I couldn’t do that. I needed their support. I knew I couldn’t cope with your loss on my own. It was already too much to bear. We went to your grandma’s (my mom) house. I cried on her shoulder, too. My sister cried with me as if it had been her who had lost you. She had flowers on our doorstep before we even made it back home.

I have some friends from church who had shared their miscarriage experiences with me, so I went to them for a different kind of support, the support that comes from experience. From them I received more flowers, a card, chocolate, and words of wisdom. They wasted no time in doing the only thing they knew would help: showing support while still giving me personal time to grieve. One of them called me every other day for a week just to check up on me. I think I received more phone calls and texts from them and family members in the first 2 weeks after I lost you than I had in the entire month.

You were very small when we lost you. I wanted to say goodbye in a way that was meaningful, but nothing came to me until a few hours later. I told your daddy what my thoughts were and he smiled.

We made a special trip up to the mountains. We went to the beautiful meadow where your daddy proposed to me. We wrapped you in a paper towel and buried you there. We kneeled down and your daddy offered a prayer. I hadn’t cried very much since the day I lost you (I didn’t have any tears left in me to cry), but I cried during the prayer and I cried afterward as I stood there, trying to find the courage to leave the meadow and go back to the car. I know that both the paper towel and your little body will become part of the soil before Summer ends, but at least I know that a part of you will always be in a place that’s very special—and now sacred—to us. One day, we’ll bring your siblings to the meadow and tell them your story.

My child, you’re safe in Heaven. I know you’re in the Lord’s hands. He will watch over you. He has watched over me without ceasing. I've felt His peace that surpasses understanding as I’ve cried through and pondered over this experience. While there are (and always will be) good days and bad days, I know that I have been healed through the Atoning Sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

Little One, I miss you. When your brother was born and your 15-month-old sister bounced into the hospital room to meet him, something had changed; I didn’t love her any less, but it was a different feeling because, without even trying, my heart had made room for him. When I see both of them now, I don’t love them any less, but it’s different because, without me realizing it, my heart had already made room for you.
I wear this in memory and honor of you, my child.

And that room will always be there when it’s time for you to come back for it.  

1 comment:

  1. Beautifully written. I too know what it's like to lose a child to miscarriage.


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