Ever since
I found
out
I was
pregnant
again,
I've been
trying to find
the perfect
name
that represents
all
that you
are.
You are
hope,
gratitude,
and
answered
prayers.
You are
comfort,
love,
and
everything
good.
You are
a miracle,
a godsend,
a blessing.
Our lives were
so dark
until you
came along,
but
you
are
a bringer of
light.
Luke.
There are times
where I don't
want
to talk about
my dead
baby.
Like in the faculty room
at lunch.
You
continue
to push
and
ask
personal
questions,
as I quietly
look
down
at my
food.
I tell myself
you're probably
trying to be
thoughtful
and
helpful,
but
I don't
understand
how you can't
see
that me
repeating the same response
three
times,
is me,
begging
for this conversation
to
end.
I finally
made a
blanket for you,
just like
I made one
for Owen.
It was
one of the hardest
things
I've had
to
do.
I had been putting
it off
for months
because
I didn't
want another
useless
baby
blanket
and
another
dead
baby.
I'm not
very
lucky.
My first baby died
because of a
genetic
condition,
and instead
of
the peaceful,
normal
second pregnancy
I thought
I deserved,
I'm on
bed-rest.
Worrying
and
trying
to keep
both
of us
alive.
You can be
such a
stinker,
during mommy's
ultrasounds.
The nurses try to
catch you,
but you always
manage to
swim
away.
It reminds me of
your big brother,
Owen.
He liked to play
tag
the very
same
way.
At my ultrasound
appointments,
nurses often ask
"Is this your
first?"
And I always say,
"No,
I have
two."
I knew
I was
pregnant
with my
second
child,
before
I saw
the test.
My baby's
big brother
hugged me
and let me know
I could
finally
rest.
He told me
he had
sent
his younger
brother
and everything
would be
okay.
And that he would
comfort me
and protect
him
every
step
of the
way.
Who
would have
thought,
that I would
sob
with
joy
when I
saw the length
of the bones
in your
arms
and
legs?
Sometimes I feel
like
half
of a
mother.
I had half
a pregnancy
with
Owen,
Then, I was given the
harder half
of motherhood,
and now I
feel
half the
joy
during my
second pregnancy.
But ironically,
the fear
has
doubled.
I was playing
in your
nursery
with our
new
puppy
When suddenly
I felt
invisible arms
around me.
My eyes filled
with tears,
my heart
wanted
to
burst,
And,
in that quiet
moment,
I knew
it was
you.
Did I
lose you
because
I wanted
you
too
much?
----
It's gotten harder
to tell
if I really am starting
to feel
happy again
or
if
I'm just
numb.
----
Sometimes
I wonder if
strangers can
see
the silent
scream
behind
my
eyes.
----
There is nothing
as horrible
as the screams
and
sobs
of a mother
whose
baby
died.
I know
I lost
a piece
of
me
when I
lost
you.
But I'm still
trying to
figure out
which
piece of me
that
was.
I changed my phone
screensaver
for the first time
in a
year.
It used to be your
ultrasound
photo.
Sometimes,
I feel guilty
when I notice
it's
gone.
The other
day,
my class read
a story
about
seeing eye
dogs.
A student
raised their hand
and asked,
"Would Owen
have needed
one of
those?"
It's strange that
my first experience with
motherhood
was helping a life transition
away
from this earth
rather than
bringing a life
into
it.
My therapist
recommended
getting a
puppy
to help
give my life
a new sense
of purpose
and
to help me
not feel
alone.
As I've been looking
at dogs,
I can't help,
but feel
guilty.
Why that is
I don't
quite
know.
I read a
post
by another
mother
who terminated
her
pregnancy
just like
I had
to
terminate
mine.
She said that
she chose
to take on
her baby's
pain
and
suffering
for the rest
of her
life,
by
ending
his
pain
and
suffering
before
it
began.
That's why
I made my
decision
too,
because
isn't that
what
motherhood
is
all
about?
There are names
for
widowers,
widows,
and,
orphans,
but what
do you call
a
mother
who lost
her
only
child?
It's been
7 months,
2 bottles of prenatal vitamins,
5 negative pregnancy tests,
and
countless tears,
since
we lost
you.
I find it
ironic
that I spend
six hours
a day,
five days
a week,
mothering the children
of strangers,
But I never
got
to mother
my own.
I don't know
much,
but
I do
know
my decision
to terminate
was made
with
tears,
prayer,
and most of all,
love.
I remember
when I was
setting up
your crib
I randomly
started
to
sob.
I used to think
it was because
I was so
happy,
But now
I think,
deep down,
I knew,
I wouldn't get to
have you
at
all.
The doctors
told me
your
condition
was like
genetic
lightning.
A fluke,
A rarity,
a once
in a lifetime
strike.
You were
also
like
lightning.
Here for a
flash
and then
you
were
gone.
I was so
used
to being
a home
for two
people,
That now
I feel
lonely
whenever
I'm
alone.
I had
a dream
a few weeks
back,
Where I saw
a little
boy
with
sandy
curls.
I locked
eyes with
him,
and
at once,
My heart
cried,
Owen.
I wanted
to stop
and pick
you up,
but
the dream
was over
before
I could.
Mother's Day
is around
the
corner.
And I feel
as if
I don't
belong.
I have the body
of a mother.
The stretchmarks
of a mother.
The heart
of a mother.
But my baby
is long
gone.
I'm a mother
to a headstone,
to a jar filled
with
ash.
No messy breakfasts
in bed,
songs sung
at church,
or crafts
made at
school.
My Mother's Day
will consist
of
cemetery visits,
what-ifs,
and
brief
tear-filled
memories of
you.
It’s funny
how bodies
hold on
to
memories.
Sometimes I’ll
catch
my hands
rubbing my
belly.
My
heartbeat will
quicken
when I feel
stomach
bubbles.
I'll sing
and talk
to you
as if
you're
still
here.
Then
there are other times
where tears
will suddenly
fall.
Most of the time
I don't know
what
triggered
them
at
all.
Little man,
Little dude,
Little bean,
We had so many
Names for you
Before you
Were
Born.
I wonder
What
You would have
Called
Me?
I’ll never know
If I made the right
Choice
When we had to
Pick how
You’d
Die,
But I do
Know
I would choose
To be your
Mommy
Over
And over
Again.
When I found out
I would have you
In the middle
Of the school
year,
I dreaded those weeks
I knew we’d be
Apart.
I’d be grading papers
And teaching
Other people’s
Children,
While you’d be at home
With grandma Lisa
Or Tiersa.
I told myself
It would all
Be okay
Because spring break
Would come,
And
We’d have
A week
Alone
Together.
Now spring break
Is here,
But you
Are
Not.
Why was it
So hard
To come up
With your
Middle name?
Were you too
Little?
Was I
Not
Ready?
Or was it
Because
I knew
Once you
Had a full
Name
That part
Would be
Over
Too?
Sometimes
I wonder
If I was
Ever meant
To be happy.
Since the one thing
I’ve always wanted
Was taken
From
Me
So
Suddenly.
How many
Babies
Of mine
Are in heaven
Waiting with
Big brother
For their turn
To be guided
Down?
Are they sharing
stories
Of
Mommy
And daddy?
Do their laughs
And giggles
Echo through
The halls of
Heaven?
With the sound
Of tiny
footsteps
pattering
on
White marble
Floors?
Are they watching,
And waiting,
For us to
Be ready?
Counting our
Tears,
And planning
Our blessings?
I used to be
afraid
of dying
Until
my little one
died.
My fear has
been replaced
with excitement
To hold him
and see
his smile.
When you lose
a baby,
you're put
in an exclusive
club.
A club of
sisterhood,
lost motherhood,
and shared
trauma.
We comfort,
listen,
and mourn,
while sharing
our
babies' names.
Weaving friendship bracelets
from tears
and
long-gone
umbilical cords.
We dream of a place
where our babies
can play
until it's time
for us to also
go
home.
We never
wanted to be in
this club,
but we're here
together
anyway.
I've had a
tricky
relationship
with God
since losing
my baby.
My prayers weren't
answered,
they never seemed
to reach
heaven.
Then,
in a touristy,
old,
Catholic
cathedral,
I decided to
kneel,
on an old
brown leather
pew,
and
pray.
In this moment of prayer
I felt
the heavens
finally
open.
A warmth in my heart,
and
a comfort
unspoken.
I begged for
a child
either
now,
or
later.
And instead
of the usual
silence,
I heard
the choirs of
heaven.
"You will
have a child"
the voices
replied.
No due date assigned,
instead
a promise was given.
That baby isn't here yet,
but
I hope
one day
they'll be.
When you lose
your first
baby,
You lose
so much
more
Than little
fingers
and toes.
You lose
your sense of
purpose,
self,
and hope
for the future.
You don't have
another child
to comfort you
Or to prove
that
you can do it
again.
All you know
is grief,
depression,
and failure.
You couldn't
even
have
your first.
Who's to say
you'll have
a second
or
a third.
All you know
is
loss.
But never
motherhood.
