Closing My Eyes

For almost five years, I have not had a dream about my first daughter. It is tormenting enough to never see her again, but even my subconscious seemed to reveal in my pain by blocking any inclination of my sweet Eleanor. That is until the day after Christmas.

 

I am not religious. I wouldn't even say I am spiritual. I just believe in the good of people and in trying to do the right thing, whatever that is. The finality of death has always been hard for me since I desperately want to believe I will see my loved ones again. But I do not believe I will. In the case of Ellie, this produces much pain and sorrow. So I yearned to dream of her...not the horrible dreams I had after she died. They were of her brother dying while I was always a second away from saving him. But dreams of a sweet, happy, and healthy baby girl, growing through the years as if she were still with us. I would beg myself to dream of her at night, but instead the grief would take over and I would inevitably cry myself to sleep quietly, as not to wake my husband. But then it happened. The dream.

When I was pregnant with my son, Ellie's older brother, I would go to a water aerobics class at a university pool several times a week. You know the scene: tile floors, humidity, the smell of chlorine and mold in the air. The dream starts at that pool. I am walking into the area where I swam and later took my son to infant classes. There are two or three instructors and a dozen little babies bobbing in the water. They aren't in distress, but instead seem to be actively swimming despite looking just a few months old! I feel like I shouldn't be there for some reason and am aware that I shouldn't be viewing this sight. As I slowly walk toward the babies, an instructor notices me and quickly produces a large yellow sheet to shield me from seeing anything. I stop, saddened I can no longer see, although I don't really understand what I am looking at. As the disappointment starts to settle in, a little fair skinned girl with blue eyes and brown curly hair (now four or five years of age) peaks around the yellow sheet and smiles at me. I know. I know in that instant that the little girl is my Ellie. I eagerly step toward her, but am suddenly taken to another place. I am still near the pool, but am now standing among several twenty-somethings in modern clothing as they wait for something. The next class? A bus? I am not sure. But I am talking frantically to them. I am asking what their names are, but none seem to know the answer. All they seem to know is that they died as infants. I zero in on two girls based on hair and eye color, and realize one is my daughter. I again ask their names, and they again reply they do not know. But one girl says she knows her birthdate. I stare at her and she says it. January 8, 2010. She is beautiful. Tall, fair shinned, dark hair, stunning blue eyes. She is alert and smart and has compassion in her eyes. She is my daughter as a woman. I call her Ellie as tears swell up in my eyes and begin toward her when my alarm goes off. I fumbled to hit the snooze button and tightly closed my eyes in hopes of seeing Ellie's face again and telling her how much I miss and love her. I lay there begging my mind to give me one more glimpse of her, to hear her talk again, to touch her. But it is in vain. The dream is gone, and so is Ellie.

 

Do I think my dream was my daughter in another realm trying to reach out to me? As wonderful as that would be, no, I don't. I think after five years of painful grief, my mind was finally allowing me to see her. Maybe it was to help me get through the holidays and her upcoming fifth birth and death dates. Maybe it was to help me process her death and the finality of it all. Maybe being around children at the holidays and thoughts of her playing in the midst of the cousin chaos made me yearn for her presence. I don't know. Finally dreaming of her was bittersweet. The image of that beautiful young woman stayed with me all day after the dream. But now that image is fading. She's gone again and the pain returns more deeply. She is still gone forever and all I have to look forward to is the hope that I will again see her in my dreams. 

Haunted

My now 5 month old daughter has been having a few issues, which requires us to see a pediatric physical therapist weekly. We just started to see a new one this week at the children’s hospital in the state capitol. It is connected to the NICU where Ellie spent her short life. When we arrived for the appointment, we took a convoluted path, but eventually found our way to the appointment. At one point, I stepped out of the session to use the restroom and was immediately taken back 26 ½ months. The smell of the soap and water, even the way my skin felt after washing my hands, triggered so many memories. Upon leaving, we were told of an easier way out. When the elevator doors opened, another smell hit: the food court where we quickly walked to in order to grab a bite to eat and get copious amounts of caffeine after Ellie crashed the first time and was stabilized. I vaguely remember texting with my best friend, in utter shock as I tried to choke down a few bites of food to prepare for the long night ahead. I was pumping because I just knew Ellie would need it and I desperately tried to stay hydrated and fed in order to produce. But the day was already so traumatic, that I just couldn’t stand the thought of eating. But I went anyway. Like so many decisions those six days, that one haunts me. I can try to justify it by saying the doctors and nurses were running tests and changing equipment and we wanted to stay out of the way. I didn’t have to pump at that moment despite being engorged. I certainly didn’t have to meet basic bodily functions and use the restroom or eat. I should have done nothing except stay with her. But I left. I couldn’t think. I left and it haunts me. So when those elevator doors opened and I smelled that food court, I shivered as if seeing a ghost.

As we turned the corner, my husband and I both slowed down momentarily as we saw the hall where you turn to enter the NICU. I saw the pole I leaned against as we called our parents, in utter shock at what had just happened. I couldn't bear to look toward the NICU doors and just stared at the ground, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths for fear of passing out. We walked up and over the same sky bridge to the parking garage that we did when she died: me catatonic, empty handed, my husband desperately trying to figure out how to fix things while fighting his own tears. The next day we had to go back in order to release her body for cremation because I refused to travel 60 miles back home without her in my arms. As my husband talked to the doctors and signed the forms, I stood, and stared at the now empty spot where her NICU open-bed was just twelve hours earlier. One neonatologist came up to me and just grabbed my hand. I don’t remember what we talked about. A nurse had gathered the few things Ellie had, mainly hospital equipment that I wanted to keep. We had bought things the day before to decorate her area with but waited since we were supposed to fly to DC that night.

I walked up that ramp the day after her death, holding a small pink tub with leads, a bulb syringe, two books we had bought to read to her, a small stuffed monkey, the dress they put her in after she died, an eye mask for her bilirubin treatments, a thermometer, a lock of her hair with a bow taped to construction paper with two pictures of us holding her, and a blanket some group makes for babies that pass. I looked down at Adelaide and thought how strange it was to actually leave this place with my living daughter. She was happily playing with a toy hanging from her car seat handle, oblivious to the significance of the place.

Our daughter will get better and stronger as a result of that place. She will catch up and undoubtedly grow up to become an amazing woman. This place owes me that. The haunted memories of Ellie's struggle and my guilt will be shared with her little sister as she heals. And baby giggles will echo down the hall.

For the Newly Bereaved

I have been thinking about where we were two years ago today: planning Ellie's memorial service, crying, staring, sleeping, crying, sitting in her room, drinking, arguing, screaming, crying...on and on and on. I was so lost. How could this have happened? What the hell do I do now?

I wish someone who had experienced the loss of a child would've helped. I didn't know about any organizations at that time. My mother-in-law lost her two month old 42 years ago, but losing her granddaughter seemed to push her off the edge a bit. I talked to her a little, but neither of us were functioning very well.

So, one of my resolutions this year is to help other bereaved families more. Below is my attempt at that!

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Let me start by sending my deepest, deepest condolences. This is so unfair. It’s unnatural. It just sucks…there is no other way to say it.

Grief is one of the most powerful emotions out there next to love. When you combine the two, it is a miracle one can even function.

It doesn’t feel like it now, but you will learn to cope and you will start to heal—although that hole in your heart never will. You have to get up every day and continue to love the memory of your sweet child and love the bright future of their legacy. Everything will have to be okay, because you are currently surviving the worst possible situation a parent can experience. Although it feels like your heart will just stop beating; that your lungs will cease to fill with air; you will survive this. 

I know nothing will help your pain. Time helps a little as does a good support network of loving, patient friends and family, but you will never truly ‘feel better’ (people will ask if you ‘feel better’ or ‘how are you feeling?’ often). That is not meant to sound dire or give anyone permission to ‘check out’.  It doesn’t mean that there won’t be good days and happy memories.  But, the situation is what it is.

So, I wanted to offer some words of advice and encouragement, if you can imagine that, during this horrific time.

The first few days after your child’s death will be a blur. Focusing on the funeral arrangements (and you should be involved or you may regret it later) and/or caring for a surviving child or grandchildren will help time move, but you are in shock...on autopilot. You will probably be bombarded by emails, calls, letters, and texts from caring and loving friends and family. Some people may come across insensitive or may tell inappropriate stories of other children passing--but they do it out of love and pain. They don't know what to say and just want to comfort you. You may feel you need to make them feel comfortable by being polite or thanking them, but no one should expect that right now. They are there because they care and love you. They don't expect anything in return. It is hard to ask for help and one never thinks they will experience the death of a child. But people are amazing in these situations; so caring and self sacrificing. Let them help.

You may go through an array of emotions if you haven't already: anger, guilt, sadness, fear, loss, etc. You may question your beliefs or find extreme comfort in them. But your grieving will be your own process that cannot be directed or explained. There certainly isn't a timeframe. You just need to be.

When visiting friends and family begin to leave, you will continue to go through the motions, writing thank you notes, possibly going back to work, cleaning out your child’s room, caring for surviving children, etc. And you will re-live everything over and over again. You may snap at family members or need to be alone. You may need to talk about what has happened or you may need to stay busy. Or you may just need to sit and cry and stare. You may talk about getting pregnant right away or about never having another child again. You may drink and sleep a little too much and bathe and eat a little less often...and that ok for the moment (but don't let it consume you). You will be in survival mode. Be irrational and sad if you need to. As long as you aren’t hurting yourself or others, do what you have to in order to get through this incredibly difficult time. What has happened is horrific and not fair; it’s hard for the brain to even process. Sometimes it doesn’t feel real…a horrible nightmare.

Some may tell you, or you may read, that the divorce rate is higher for couples that have lost a child. This is not true. There is no supporting documentation or cited study for that statistic. You both are experiencing something no parent should have to. You have been through a roller coaster of emotions and have argued more than ever and loved deeper than before. It is a struggle because everyone, especially men, grieve differently (this is both due to personality types and societal pressure). But communication, space, patience and love are the key. It is not pretty at times, but you can be stronger as a couple for everything. No one else knows your pain better than your partner but don't expect them to know what is going on in your head. Lean on them, talk about what you feel and offer your understanding too.

As time passes, that amazing support from countless family, friends, and strangers will fade. It is natural and doesn't mean people don't care or don't still hurt. But they will move on while you will be stuck. However, there will be people in your life that just cannot understand your pain (and only we know how truly lucky they are to have never experienced a child’s death). They might expect you to ‘buck up’ or ‘move on’ or some other absurd thing. If you have to remove them from your life or alter your relationship, do it now! You can spend an immense amount of time just getting people to try to remember and honor your child, but is doesn't mean that they will or even want to. Their ignorance only intensifies the grieving process.

Know that you will never (or shouldn’t)  just 'get over' what has happened and that there is still support there. You are forever changed - you belong to a community of grief. You are defined as a bereaved parent now although it doesn’t have to define you. But you will need support for a long time. One year will not be enough as some will say. Yes, the first days weeks, months, and year anniversaries of birthdays, holidays, and the deathday will be extremely hard. It does not get easier with time, just less painful. You eventually learn how to cope (most days). Greif counseling or joining online groups like the Compassionate Friends or Faces of Loss, Face of Hope can provide an amazing amount of support. You may also think about getting involved in charities or service activities in honor of your child.

Memorial items of your child are a must right now. A blanket they slept on or were wrapped in, medical equipment used in their care, clothing/toys you intended for them to have, etc. should be kept. If you have experienced neonatal death, you have very few items that were actually touched by your child, if any at all. Having a memorial item made such as a necklace, bracelet, picture, cast/mold, tattoos etc. with your child’s name and birth date might help keep your child close.

After a while, and it is different for everyone, you will be able to make it through a day without the lump in the back of your throat or knot in your stomach. You will be able to smile and laugh again although it seems so foreign right now. You will be able to talk about your child without crying (although it is ok to still cry). One day you will be sitting and realize you have gone an hour without thinking about your child or your pain and you will panic. It is ok. It doesn’t mean you love them any less.

There will continue to be triggers for a long time beyond the anniversaries and holidays. A certain song or book; another baby or pregnant woman; and toys could cause you to break down in tears. Leave the situation and don’t feel you have to ‘suck it up’ or attend functions that you know will upset you. If people can’t understand how much pain you are in and display some patience and understanding, then they shouldn’t be in your life to begin with. You can choose to talk to them about this by stating EXACTLY what you need (please don't invite me to baby showers; please warn me if a movie/book you are recommending shows a child being hurt or dying or bereaved parents; please say my child's name and remember their birthday/deathday; etc.). Youc an also chose to distance yourself. Reconcilation may happen in the future, but you have to make it through every minute, so do what you must!

You may have days when you cannot get out of bed and have to stay home. You may get angry and blame yourself (after all, as a mother and father it is our job to nurture and protect our children). These are completely normal feelings of truly amazing parents (and you are parents no matter how long your child was alive!). You may also incessantly seek answers to medical complications/genetic disorders or ask why and what-if or think of all the I-should-haves. It will be tormenting to run through all the different scenarios. But the past cannot be changed although we desperately try to will it so. Redirecting those repetitive thoughts is difficult, but can be accomplished by allowing yourself to do so (as well as help from good friends/family and/or a cousnelor). Allow yourself to grieve, but allow yourself to heal too.

This life is so hard, especially without our children. But you will heal. You will sincerely laugh again. You will be able to make it through a day without crying. You will feel yourself getting stronger and loving your child even more…if that is possible.

Hoping for Hope

Today is the International Day of Hope. If you have lost a baby and are part of any online communities, especially Facebook, you may have noticed people changing their profile pictures for today. We do this in memory of our lost babies and to show solidarity to the other families who had suffered.

The Day of Hope is a great project. As "Babylost Mommas" we try to cope with our grief daily. It is always there. So it is nice to step back from that intense emotion and think about hope, as hard as that may seem sometimes.

Today I am basking in the memory of my sweet Ellie and hoping that others will too. Today I am smiling and hoping that I can bring my rainbow baby home, healthy in October. Today I feel love from my husband as we hope for strength and the ability to heal. And today I hope that the those in different phases of their baby loss journey feel the warmth and support of those that understand. Today I hope.

Shhh...Don't Poke the Bereaved Mother!

"If you know someone who has lost a child, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died--you're not reminding them. They didn't forget they died. What you're reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and that is a great gift......." ~Elizabeth Edwards~

So very true. I need to talk about Eleanor, not all the time, but often. Sometimes I feel like this is all some horrible nightmare; that it is surreal. Talking about her and what has happened, and even my fears with my current pregnancy, help ground me. And they certainly help get out some of the tension and pain that builds up. You won’t break me if you mention her name. Instead you will lift me up. Even though it has been 19 months, her death is still so fresh to me and I suspect it always will be. I think I will always need to talk about her and hope there is always someone there to listen. (Please don't get me wrong. There are many very sweet people who always let me talk about Ellie, especially my best friend and husband.)

I belong to such a beautiful, yet shattered community. We grieve. We remember. We support. We love. We are mothers no matter what the circumstances were surrounding the death of our child(ren) or how old they were when they left. Several members have had horrible conversations with family and friends and been treated so unfairly (me included). But what has really struck a nerve with me lately is Facebook.

Ok, we all know one shouldn’t judge their self worth by Facebook. Not all of those 200 people are truly your friends and that is ok! But when a bereaved mother posts about their child and is attacked for: not “moving on”; talking about something that should be private; trying to be the center of attention; even being inappropriate and macabre; or sometimes even worse, when they are ignored, I become enraged. There are already people out there that get annoyed with pictures and stories and updates about a Facebook friend’s child. I say unfriend/delete/block them! It’s your page, do what you like. Children are part of what defines those that have them (and it is okay if you don’t). But for the people that do not get annoyed at posts about living children, why is it any different when a post is about a child no longer here? The child was. They existed. They were loved and wanted. Why can’t the mother talk about that? What is the commentor afraid of? Why does a picture of my living son get 33 comments and likes while one honoring my daughter gets 9 or less or sometimes none at all? I’m not trying to “rub” my tragedy in anyone’s face. I am not hysterical in any way. I don’t need you to comment in order to know she was/is loved. But I do need her to be acknowledged. All I have left of my six day old daughter is her legacy. The pictures of her while here are personal and I couldn’t stand it if someone negatively commented on her appearance, so I choose nott o post them. But I also can’t post a picture of her first birthday or first day of school. There will be no pictures of her first sporting event or play or formal dance. IF Facebook survives the fickle social media world, I won’t even be able to post pictures of my grandchildren. So all I have, and all the members of my community have, are pictures of things that remind us of our child or events in where we are honoring our child. How hard is it to take a few seconds out of your day to lift me up while honoring my daughter? You won't awaken some sleeping bear or anything! I am a mother. A proud one at that!

Can you give me that gift Ms. Edwards is referencing in the above quote?

Bittersweet

We found out two weeks ago, at 19wks pregnant, that the baby has a healthy heart and no signs of hydrops! That was confirmed by a Pediatric Cardiologist the following week. I cried tears of joy and my husband and I both gave a HUGE sigh of relief. Another milestone has come and gone and we are still progressing along. During those appointments, we also learned that we will be expecting our second daughter. Her name will be Adelaide.  

I had mixed emotions to this as I knew it would be difficult no matter what the gender was…although that was the least important thing to me during those appointments. But once it sunk in that we had a healthy baby, the realization that I would finally have my living daughter both excited and terrified me. All the fears I had with Ellie came rushing back, which made me miss her even more. And I am terrified people will forget her with the new baby coming, especially since that baby is a girl. But we ARE so very excited.

My husband and I went straight to Target and bought a few toys and an outfit as soon as our appointment was over. We hadn’t allowed ourselves to get too attached until this point out of fear. But these appointments allowed us to imagine bringing Adelaide home in October.  As we excitedly talked about what was to come, it hit me that we already HAD this conversation a year and a half ago: What would it be like to have a girl? Would Sebastian be a good big brother? How would life change with two children? Remember what it was like with an infant? We had the furniture. We had all the toys and clothes. We were almost ready for Ellie at 30 weeks, just missing a few minor things. But now, now we would be going through the exact same motions as before. How strange to talk about bringing a new baby home, totalling two kids, when you have had three (and two butterfly babies lost by miscarriage)?

And I can't help but think about how Ellie’s 20 week scan was good too. The specialists have both said they would’ve caught her condition by then and it really depends on who is looking and what type of equipment is used. They said at this point they can see 70-90% of all major defects, with the disclaimer that something could be missed. I can’t help but fear the outcome will be the same for this daughter although I desperately hope it isn’t.

People keep asking me if I feel “better” now that we know the heart is okay. Will I “enjoy” this pregnancy more. The answer is complicated. I will never, ever be “better”. My daughter died, in my arms, and nothing will erase that. I have met amazing women who have suffered the loss of a child and now know there are many other complications that can occur. I am a little more at peace about Ellie after talking with the Cardiologist about her defect. I am allowing myself to talk more to Adelaide and do feel more connected. My husband has confessed he deseperately hoped for a girl and has every intention of spoiling her rotten in lots of pink, girlie things! If anything, these appointments and discussions with specialists have allowed me to begin forgiving myself for things I feel guilty about. I am beyond hopeful. But I still have so much fear. The unimaginable has happened and my eyes are wide open now. Although October will hopefully bring a healthy baby girl, my grieving journey will continue for a long time. Eleanor will never be replaced.  

The Tale of Miss Emily and Mr. Daleshire

I feel like my life is slowly morphing into a Victorian novel. BBC worthy even!

The tale starts with a young women on the outskirts of everything. Her name would undoubtedly be something like Miss Emily. Miss Emily has different ideologies, political views, philosophies, interests, etc. as the other young women in her social circle. But she plays the part of the good girl and does as her parents and society expects: good grades in high school, college, and graduate school followed by getting a job. Along the way she meets a handsome older man who is somewhat of an outsider himself. Not the typical Alpha-male type but an artistic, educated, funny man, secure in his masculinity and confident in his abilities. We will call him Mr. Daleshire. Mr. Daleshire and Miss Emily court within the traditions of their day and fall deeply in love. Shortly after professing their unyielding love for one another, Miss Emily travels 2,000 miles away to volunteer for one year. But their love stays true over the days and miles and Mr. Daleshire proposes to Miss Emily while she is away. They marry a year later. Bliss.

The next few years are full of laughter, love, and adventure for the Daleshires. They travel the world. Buy a house. Get a dog! All the wonderful things young couples do when they are in love. However, despite this deep love and respect for one another, they feel something is missing. A child. So, they excitedly begin trying to have a baby after two years of blissful marriage. Months upon months pass; their spirits being broken along the way. But then, fifteen months later, they find themselves expecting a baby! Excitement and fear! The pregnancy and baby boy are perfect. Life couldn't get any better.

Mr. Daleshire, being the hardworking, honest, and intelligent man that he is, begins to look for more career opportunities to supplement his growing family. So, the Daleshires pack up, leaving dear friends and family to travel to a new place. This place isn't ideal for either person. Upon arriving, Miss Emily is in tears and vows to leave within three years. But Miss Emily also finds employment in the new place, they purchase a house and begin to talk about expanding their family again. Discouraged by the length of time it previously took to get pregnant, they are shocked after just four months to learn they are expecting their second child. The pregnancy progresses wonderfully; a girl! The Daleshires cannot wait to complete their family. Their visions of two children playing in the yard is coming to fruition.

Then disaster hits at 30 weeks pregnant. The baby girl is very sick with an imperfect heart. Chaos ensues after the news is broken. Hospitalization. Doctors. Prognosis. C-section. Diagnosis. NICU. Death. Within 10 days of finding out, the beautiful baby girl has passed away. The Daleshire's world is turned upside down and their hearts are broken. Relationships with family members deteriorate or all together end. Friendships are made and lost. They fight harder and love deeper than ever before and somehow survive.

As time passes, they slowly begin to regain strength. Although they are in love with their son, they grieve for their daughter and yearn for another chance. Ten months after the death of their daughter, they become pregnant again. Joy. Pure joy for the first time in such a long time and they tell all their friends and family. Then it is over too. Just six short days and Miss Emily miscarries. Pain. Pain again.

Making it through the holidays and one year anniversary of the birth and death of their daughter, the Daleshires lean on one another and their friends and family. With reflection and memory they look back over the past twelve months of heartache and decide, just one more time, to try for another baby. Visions of two children playing still dance in their heads and they try to make it a reality again. Miss Emily doesn't have problems getting pregnant like the previous two times. Is this a sign that it is meant to be? She is cautious this time--guarded--as is Mr. Daleshire. They choose not to share their news with family and friends and await their first appointment with a doctor. To their surprise, they are expecting twins! Shock. Shock and hope. They shout it from the rooftop!

One month goes by. Miss Emily is nine weeks pregnant and is sick with nausea...but thrilled about it. Mr. Daleshire is supportive and caring as always. Their young son is excited to welcome his siblings. The news of twins has brought new life and joy to grandparents who have had to repeatedly watch their grandchildren die and children suffer. Coworkers and friends share in the joy. Excited to see the babies, the couple goes back to the doctor. Tragedy, yet again. One of the baby's hearts has stopped beating. More pain. How can this keep happening?

The Daleshires have lost one daughter at six days old, one baby at 4.5 weeks pregnant, and one twin at 9 weeks pregnant. They now hold their breath for the surviving twin. What will the next doctor's appointment show? How will this story end?

A Letter to Eleanor

I've mentioned being in grief therapy after the death of Eleanor. It has helped, but the healing is still a very long, hard, slow process. After my miscarriage in November, my therapist suggested I write a letter. It could be to "Baby K" or Eleanor. But she talked about how cathartic it could be to get all these feelings organized and out. The below letter is the result. I read it to Ellie on her first birthday, January 8, 2011, at the spot where we spread her ashes.

If you are a parent who has lost a child, I HIGHLY encourage you to do this. I plan to write one every year and read it to her aloud each January 8th...followed by one heck of a birthday party!


Eleanor,

I have waited almost a year to write to you, although I speak to you often in my heart and in my head. Seeing your name on this page—writing to you—already has me in tears. I miss you so much.

When I was a girl, especially during my teenage years, my mother would say, “You’ll never understand until you have your own children” and “You’ll know when you have your own daughter.”  These statements were usually in response to some hormone driven comment on my part and I probably rolled my eyes in the standard teenage response. I didn’t truly understand what she meant until your brother was two weeks old. Don’t get me wrong, I loved him and wanted to protect him instantaneously, that is primal and instinctual, but I don’t think I was IN love with him at first. I had NO idea what I was doing! But after two weeks of colicky cries and sleep deprivation something clicked. While listening to a song from a Putumayo Kids Presents: Dreamland - World Lullabies, he suddenly stopped crying when, “Arriba del Cielo” played (track 5, a cute song about tamales in the sky). I looked at him and cried the tears of joy for the first time in his life and only the second time in MY life (the first being when your father told me he loved me). After that moment, all the fears and doubts and panic went out the window. For one moment I felt I knew what my purpose was, something I struggled with for as long as I can remember. I felt feminine and peaceful and wise. My purpose was the most basic and natural one there is: to be a loving mother.  

I want to be honest with you. I was a nervous wreck when we found out your gender. High school was hell for me. I wasn’t popular or thin or pretty. I was smart enough, but not brilliant. Boys weren’t interested in me. I always felt on the outside of the crowd. I feared for you, especially in today’s climate of cyber bullying and the romanticizing of teenage sex and love. I wanted to protect you and to tell you that, “it will get better”.  But beyond that feeling of protection, I wanted to experience life with you; through your eyes. I wanted to watch you take your first steps. I wanted to hear you laugh and call me, “mommy.” I wanted to watch you play with your big brother. I wanted to tearfully take you to your first day of school. I wanted to help you pick out a prom dress (a tasteful, long, all-the-way-up-to-your-ears black dress circa 1880, but a prom dress none the less). I wanted to take you to college and watch you grow and learn. I wanted to see you dance and shine at your wedding. I wanted to hold your baby in my arms and sing the same lullaby I sang to you as a child. I couldn’t’ wait to tell you how proud I was of the amazing woman, mother, and wife you were sure to be. I wanted so much for you. I wanted you.

I’m sorry, Ellie. I’m so sorry. I feel like I failed you. I’m sure if given the chance I would have made plenty of mistakes, ones you would have hopefully forgiven. But I didn’t even get the chance to ask for your forgiveness for any of it. The guilt I have for not enjoying my pregnancy with you as well as the guilt for not spending every second with you when you were here consumes me.  You aren’t here to forgive me and I can’t forgive myself. 

I hope you know how much I love you. I hope you felt it when I touched you or when I sang to you. The same lullaby I heard when I fell in love with your brother is the same one I still use to calm him or put him to sleep. It is the same song I sang to you each time I saw you. I loved you from the instant I saw that positive pregnancy test. But I fell in love with you when I held you for the first and last time while singing that lullaby in the NICU. All of the babies crying and nurses talking and machines beeping faded and it was just me and you. I told you how proud I was of you and how much I loved you. I told you that it was okay for you to go and that I didn’t want you to be in pain anymore. I have to believe you heard me…that you knew what I was saying. Did you?

I have been walking around in a fog since you left. I think about you constantly and wish we had more time together. You are with me all the time and not a day goes by where I don’t think about you and wish the outcome could have been different. I would give anything for it to have been. I would have taken your place, given you my beating heart if I could have saved you. The universe is cruel and unfair and I don’t understand any of it. I miss you terribly, Ellie. I had such dreams for you and now all I have are dreams of you. The pain is indescribable, but I need it to feel closer to you. It is the only thing that makes sense.

I wish I had something poetic and deep to say to you to adequately express how much I love you. I don’t think childless women or men will ever truly understand the bond a mother has with her child. You are forever a part of me. When you left, you took that part with you. Maybe that is what motherhood is really about; nurturing, loving, supporting, giving a part of yourself to your child so they can continue on their journey. If it is, you must know that you left a piece of you with me too and it gives me hope and purpose again. I will always love you, Ellie. The moment I don’t say or think it daily, will be the moment we are together again…wherever that may be.

Yours Forever,
Mommy