I'll never get to hold you or hear your laugh. I'll never see you smile or kiss your cheek. You may think that because it's been awhile that I've forgotten. I haven't forgotten. On the days my yearning for more children is so strong, I think of you even more.
My first loss happened at around 8 weeks along. I was 18 and unsure of what was happening. We told everyone that we were pregnant. I mean, every.single.person. So it was absolutely heartbreaking to tell everyone that we weren't pregnant just a few weeks later. I may have been young. I may have been pregnant for just a few weeks, but the loss hit me. Hard. And I grieved, silently, for a long time.
Our baby was due in July of 2001. On my due date, I took baby supplies, as much as I could afford at 19, to a local pregnancy center to bless a young mom. For a minute, I felt like my loss had meaning. I couldn't talk about it with anyone because being so young, losing so early...no one wanted to talk about that. I did. I wanted to talk about the crushed dreams, the streams of tears, the emptiness.
In November of 2002, our first son was born. He was so perfectly precious and wonderful. I had loved him for each day that I carried him and when he was placed in my arms, my heart was overflowing. We were instantly connected.
We were surprised with those double lines again in the summer of 2005. We had just bought our first tiny, little house in a military community outside of Fort Campbell. With one little boy in a bedroom down the hall, the little bedroom next door would be perfect for a sibling. And as much as I wanted to wait...I couldn't--we shared our news with everyone. Each week that passed made me a little less apprehensive. When I started to feel the flutters, I thought we'd be ok. At a routine appointment, just days before Adam's first trip to Iraq, we found out. Just shy of 16 weeks, our baby was gone.
I never spent enough time grieving for our sweet, precious baby. I couldn't. I didn't think I could go through each heartbreaking emotion again. Adam was leaving, like right away, I had a 2 year old to take care of--alone--and a little house to manage by myself. When I think of that pregnancy, my most vivid memory is of sitting in the living room, playing with Adisson on the floor and I felt it. I felt the bubbles, the butterflies dancing around and I knew--I was feeling my baby's somersaults.
While I didn't have the energy for the tears, it felt as though my heart was literally falling apart. It was a pain that consumed me in the quiet, still hours of the night.
Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.
Our lives have since been blessed with two more sons who fill our days and house with chaos, laughter, and fun. Today, as I do the laundry, homeschool the boys, make dinner, and take care of the endless tasks that I face each day, I will spend my quiet thoughts thinking of the babies I didn't get to see.
My dearest loves,
I didn't have the chance to hold you in my arms and I never had to opportunity to snuggle you and cover you with kisses. But for every second of your short lives, I carried you. I wanted you. I loved you. I believe that I'll have the chance to see you again and what a day that will be.
I love you still today,