Pausing...

...For a moment to remember the baby we lost this time last year. 

Technically, we don't know when his little heart stopped beating, but today is the anniversary of the D&C.  Not really a birthdate at all, but...well, it seems significant anyway.  At least to me.

It has been a difficult year, and I know I haven't been as good about posting as I used to be.  It is probably a combination of not knowing where to start and not being able to find the words.

And then there is the guilt.

Guilt because I always thought I wanted answers.

Guilt because now I have them.

Guilt because I have no choice but to move on.

Guilt because I know I'll always wonder about what could have been.

A clotting disorder.  I have a clotting disorder.  Something about Protein S and Protein C deficiencies and copies of some mutation on a couple of different genes.  I really don't know that much about it other than my doctor saying that just one of those things - by itself - puts a person at a high risk of thromboembolism.  And I have three (four?  Do you count the genes individually or just the mutation?  Or are the Protein S and C deficiencies caused by the mutated genes?  I don't know).  Not that it matters, really.  It's what killed my baby last year.  A blood clot formed on my side of the placenta and...well, that was it.  No clot and I would have a six month old baby boy in my arms right now.

I even know what we would have named him.

Of course, the miraculous part of all of this is that Banner IS here.  The same thing could have happened to him.  Did - in fact - happen to him.  Remember that placental abruption that very nearly killed both of us?  Blood clot.  They don't know when his formed.  Only that it made his entrance into the world much, much more dramatic and terrifying than I imagined it would be.  Thank God he survived.  I cannot imagine my world without him.

Although, it is easy enough for me to imagine a world where his brother survived.  Still.  To this day.  Whether I want to our not.  I see him everywhere.  In the arms of friends who had babies around the same time.  At the Arboretum.  While at swim class.  In all of Banner's hand-me-downs that I saved in case I had two boys.  Sometimes I dream he occupies the now empty nursery down the hall.  I think about the milestones he'd be reaching.  Solid food.  Sitting up.  I tear up.  No one knows.  No one sees.  No one wants to talk about it.  Because it has been a year.  Twelve months.  365 days.  Time marches forward, but I don't think this particular wound will ever heal.  Scar over one day maybe, but right now it still bleeds. 

It is what it is.  No one ever said miscarriage was easy. 

Banner sometimes tells me he wants a baby brother, and I tell him he has one.  In Heaven.  Watching over him.  Watching over us all.

What Makes a Mother...

I thought of you and closed my eyes
And prayed to God today.
I asked what makes a Mother
And I know I heard him say,

A Mother has a baby
This we know is true.
But God, can you be a Mother
When your baby's not with you?

Yes you can, he replied
With confidence in his voice.
I give many women babies
When they leave is not their choice

Some I send for a lifetime
And others for a day.
And some I send to feel your womb.
But there's no need to stay.

I just don't understand this,
God I want my baby here!
He took a breath and cleared His throat
And then I saw a tear

I wish that I could show you
What your child is doing today.
If you could see your child smile
With the other children and say,

"We go to earth to learn our lessons
Of love and life and fear.
My Mommy loved me oh so much
I got to come straight here."

"I feel so lucky to have a Mom
Who had so much love for me. I
learned my lesson very quickly
and My Mommy set me free."

"I miss my Mommy oh so much
But I visit her each day.
When she goes to sleep at night
On her pillow is where I lay."

"I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek
And whisper in her ear,
Mommy don't be sad today
I am your baby and I am here."

So you see my dear sweet one
Your children are okay
Your babies are here in My home
And this is where they'll stay.

They'll wait for you with Me
Until your lesson is through.
And on the day that you come home
They'll be at the gates for you.

So now you see what makes a Mother
It's the feeling in your heart.
It's the love you had so much of
Right from the very start

So, yeah. About that...

Dear Internets,

You know when you are so focused on getting back to normal that you suddenly realize that you are miles away from normal?  From okay?  That was me on Tuesday night.  When I actually wrote THIS POST.

Monday was really hard.  I did not realize how much I was dreading seeing the other mother in mommy-and-me that is due five days before I was in October.  And there she was.  She's missed a bunch of classes recently, so I hadn't seen her since March.  But, of course, news had spread, and she knew.  She came up to me after class and said how sorry she was to hear about what had happened.  I had been doing so well, but I choked up talking to her.  In an effort to get away, I mumbled something about how the whole situation is hard.  That it sucks.  I held it together for the ten feet between her and the shower, and used Banner's post swim rinse off to mask the ugly cry I had right there in the locker room.

Then, the next day, I burst into tears when Trevor said something innocent after dinner.  I thought he was mad at me, but he was only kidding.  And, suddenly, I realized maybe I wasn't doing as well as I thought I was.  In that moment, I sat down and wrote the list of all the reasons I'm angry.

Honestly, I never intended to post it.  But I've received all these emails from people talking about how strong I am for writing about my miscarriage, and felt like I needed to give perspective.  Because these last six weeks have been a real struggle for me.  For Trevor.  For my family.  It would be a lie to pretend that everything is all hunky-dory six weeks out.  Mostly because I am not strong at all.  I'm heartbroken and angry.  And you know what?  That is okay.  After all, aren't all these emotions just steps in the grieving process?

So I made myself type out every.last.reason why I'm angry.  The order didn't matter.  I just let it flow.  When I was done, I felt lighter.  Twenty-four hours later, I reread what I wrote, and let Trevor see it.  I asked if it would be a mistake to publish it, and he said it would be a mistake not to.

I slept better last night than I have in days, and I no longer feel like a ticking time bomb of pent-up sadness and misdirected anger.  For me, writing down what I am really feeling is immensely therapeutic and liberating.  As for posting it on the internet?  Consider this blog my temporary confessional.

Thank you all for reading.  For caring.  It might not be today or tomorrow, but - as long as I have my boys - I'm going to be okay.

XOXO,
Deals

Six Weeks...

And then *bam* it hit me.

I'm angry.

There I said it.  I'm angry.

I'm angry that it still hurts six weeks out.

I'm angry that I'm not over it.

I'm angry I still can't talk about it without tearing up.

I'm angry that I counted down the weeks to my October 8th due date on my work calendar.  In pen.

I'm angry that I don't have a new baby to look forward to.

I'm angry at myself because always thought I could reason my way through this.

I'm angry because everyone (including me) wants to sweep this under the rug, and I just...can't.

I'm angry that I know it was a boy because I keep picturing another little Banner.  I see two little boys playing together.  Growing up together.  Brothers.

I'm angry because I keep envisioning a life that will never be.

I'm angry because I'll never know why that little heart ceased to beat.

I'm angry because I know I'll never believe it wasn't somehow my fault.

I'm angry because no one talks about miscarriage.

I'm angry because someone who I thought loved me told me I make them miserable, to get over myself and that they are done feeling sorry for me.  And that was only three weeks after what happened, happened.

I'm angry because I feel the same way.  I don't want to be around me, either.

I'm angry that I can't look at Facebook without tearing up because so many people I know are expecting.  I want so badly to be happy for them, and hate myself that I can't.  Especially the ones that are due in October.  Their posts are like knives, but because I want to be excited for them, I can't look away.  It hurts, it hurts, it hurts no matter how much I want it not to.

I'm angry because I feel like I am mourning alone.

I'm angry because I know I'd be feeling the first movements about now, and we'd be going in for our twenty week sonogram early next week.

I'm angry that I've been avoiding my friends.  Especially the ones I know are trying to start families.  Because I don't want them to tell me they are pregnant in person.  I don't know how I'll react, and that makes me hate me.

I'm angry because another mother in the mommy-and-me swim class is due five days before I was, and I can't look at her without choking up.  I don't think I've ever truly been jealous of someone before.

I'm angry because I've been a terrible wife lately.

I'm angry because I know Trevor is losing patience with me, and I can't say I blame him.  I'm losing patience with me.

I'm angry that I'm so sensitive lately that I can't tell if someone is kidding or not.

I'm angry I can't even watch the TODAY SHOW without seeing a pregnant Savannah Guthrie.

I'm angry that all of the mothers at day care seem to be pregnant right now, and I can't go anywhere without pregnancy chatter and baby bumps.

I'm angry at my body for taking so long to physically recuperate and get back to normal.  I'm tired of the aches, the infection and the hormonal roller coaster.

I'm angry that I hesitate when people who don't know I miscarried ask if we want more children.  And then I feel horrible if the hesitation is noticed and I end up telling them the truth.  Because nothing kills a conversation like, "Oh, yeah.  I just had miscarriage".

I'm angry that Trevor never hesitates.  He happily tells anyone who will listen that we want more children.  He never dwells on what what we lost.  People like talking to him.

I'm angry because I know it could have been so much worse, and I have no reason to still be feeling like this.  I read about someone whose term baby girl was stillborn and another who lost her eleven month old to SIDS.  Compared to that kind of loss, mine is nothing.

And, yet...the anger is still there.  Or maybe it is just sadness?  I'm not even sure I know anymore.

Two steps forward, one step back…

"Knowledge is knowing that we cannot know."

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

One of the bouquets of Easter flowers that decorated the alter of our church on Sunday was in memorial to “the little life we lost”. It is silly, but doing so really helped. Our tribute was printed in the service bulletin, and – for me – attending church Easter morning was as close as I’ll ever get to having a funeral or memorial service; even if no one was aware of it except for me. Trevor squirreled away three of the programs in the pink folder that we received from our doctor during our first prenatal visit back in February. That thin folder now holds all the details of our second baby from being to end; a tiny life unrealized.

Since then, I’ve been asked twice about my pregnancy from well-intentioned people who simply hadn’t heard that I miscarried. I was so proud of myself for not tearing up when I told them what happened. Not because it didn’t hurt to have to explain, but because I didn’t want these individuals to feel awkward for bringing it up.

Make sense?

Then this morning happened, and it was like March 24th all over again.

My doctor’s office called with the results from the D&C. There were no chromosomal abnormalities; no reason science can give me to explain why that little heart ceased to beat.

Also, the baby? It was a boy. Banner would have had a little brother.

I was prepared to hear that there was some sort of genetic cause that explained why my baby died. And in some ways, that may have been easier. At least then I would know it wasn’t my fault. But now I find myself (again) agonizing over every drop of caffeine, every elevated heart rate during a run, every slice of brie that I had between January and March, and I simply fall apart.

I know I should be glad to hear that there was nothing wrong chromosomally. That means there isn’t a history of genetic issues. That we supposedly have less to worry about if/when we decide to try again. But, really, you never know what may happen when you roll those proverbial dice. And it just about kills me that they can know enough to determine the baby’s gender, but not enough to be able to tell me why his little body failed to thrive in my womb.

Knowing is bittersweet. While I’m glad to have some answers, they only lead to more questions. I’m haunted by the empty daydream of what could have been, and – for twelve, short weeks – almost was. A life full of brothers, bunk beds and being a boy mom. So close and yet...

...if only, if only, if only.

Thank you...

S’up?

Been awhile, huh? Yeah. Sorry about that. I sort of crawled in a hole a couple of weeks ago, and I’m not quite sure I’m ready to leave. The rational side of my brain is all like, “OMG, GET OVER IT ALREADY”, but the other side is still an emotional puddle of gloom and doom.

On the plus side, I haven’t cried in days (today doesn't count because I had to go in for my post op check up). But, then again, I’ve also actively avoided even thinking about “that subject” to the best of my ability. Denial and I have been BFFs since childhood.

But since I’ve ignored pretty much everyone for two weeks, I figured it was time to show my (virtual) face again…if only for a moment to let people know that I’m still here. I don’t think I would classify myself as anywhere near “fine”, but I’m working on it.

That's something, right?

I want you to know that I’ve read every single one of the sweet comments, emails, Facebook messages, texts and wall posts you have sent to me. I’ve heard from people from high school and college that I thought I had lost touch with years ago, friends who – unbeknownst to me – had suffered miscarriage(s), museum peeps, family friends, other mothers from church and even a few empathetic strangers. You all have no idea how much your words, thoughts and prayers have meant to me.

And I mean that literally. Because, again, I don't think I even acknowledged a single one. With the exception of the person that told me that they would gladly drive to Dallas and poke the eye of anyone who told me that "God just needed another angel". To that person (and you know who you are), you made me smile.  We should hang out more often.

And, no.  No one has said that particular little ditty to me.  But I have heard other remarks and comments that make my head spin.  Not because they are cliche.  I can handle cliche, because I know the person who said it - deep down - meant well.  Maybe they just couldn't find the words?  The comments I'm referencing are insensitive or just plain mean.  For the record, implying that must be hormonal because I just had a miscarriage is the big, ugly, cracked-out-on-PCP version of "is this your time of the month".

But I digress.

I am simply overwhelmed that so many people took the time and effort to reach out. I've saved every last word - mostly because I've always intended to respond. I just don't know how. Saying "Thank You" doesn't even begin to cover it. Honestly, I do not think I'll ever be able to adequately explain what all those notes, emails and texts have meant to me. They've pulled me through the last couple of weeks...cheesy as that sounds.

(And, wow, does it ever.  Please know I mean it sincerely.)

I feel very guilty for ignoring you. The emotional puddle part of me is just doesn’t feel super worthy of anything right now. The rational side of me knows I did nothing wrong, but I just can’t seem to shake this overwhelming sense of guilt, shame and embarrassment. I always thought it would help if people knew I was pregnant so if something happened they could be there to lean on. But, now...I dunno. It is ridiculous, but I feel like I jinxed it somehow. I like failed somehow. And every time I try to write back to thank those that have tried to be there for me, I feel like I need to apologize and ask for forgiveness.  Which is one of the biggest reasons for my silence, and I'm not even sure it makes any sense.  Because I KNOW I have no reason to feel guilt, shame or embarrassment.  Well, that is, until the next time I have to fess up to someone else, "That I lost the baby."  Me.  I lost it.  Not Trevor.  Not bad chromosomes.  Me.  That entire sentence implies I did something wrong.

Also, did you know the medical term for miscarriage is "Spontaneous Abortion"? 

I’ve been told that my letter to my baby was powerful. That it helped others. That it moved people to tears. But honestly, my only motivation was to pay tribute to a tiny little heart that only beat for three weeks. I almost decided not to post my letter, because it was so personal. So many tears were shed in the simple act of writing down what few precious memories I had. But, at the end of the day (and with Trevor’s blessing and encouragement), I felt like making the whole thing public was the only way to recognize and acknowledge that little life. Keeping it to myself wasn’t an option. I needed to let it go. It was immensely healing. Just knowing that my memories were out there - and that nothing on the internet can ever really go away - was such a comfort. I’ll never get to know that little life here on Earth, but I can make sure – in my own trivially insignificant way – that it is never forgotten.

But don't let any of that fool you.  I'm not strong.  My OBGYN told me he and his wife lost ten babies. 10.  That's strength (he is also the only person that can tell me that all of this is God's plan).  Me, though?  I lose one, and I'm questioning things I've never even thought to question before.  And I absolutely hate the emotions that well up inside when another friend announces she is expecting.  I want so much to celebrate and be happy for them, but all I can do is think about what I lost.

If it makes any difference, the rational side of me is well aware of how lame the emotional side is.  Because last weekend was all about me acting out and doing things I couldn't/wouldn't do while I was pregnant.  Mainly, drinking (I got drunk, y'all.  Off of three glasses of wine.  Because that is all it took after not drinking for three months), drinking Gatorade and chewing gum (artificial sweeteners, you guys!), and schlepping tables and heavy things before getting clearance from my doctor.  I've also completely binged on caffeine and momentarily considered smoking a cigarette.  Because I've never smoked a cigarette (as in ever), and gorging myself on soft cheeses and raw fish just doesn't have the same rebellious ring to it somehow.

(Don't worry.  There was no smoking.)

In related news, I must be the most boring/pathetic person on the planet if the mere thought of smoking a cigarette makes it a "wild" Friday night. 

But I digress.  Again.

One last very special thank you to those very select few friends who know me well enough to KEEP calling, texting, showing up and forcing me to see and hang out despite having busy lives and dramas of their own. My personal favorite was a friend who realized that I’d answer the phone if she called me at work. She even called from a number she knew I wouldn’t recognize just in case I had caller ID. It is times like these that you realize who your true friends are.  Like my high school roommate of three years.  She has called and/or texted me almost every single day since she found out and tried to make me smile.  Yesterday she SANG on my voicemail.  Twice.  For absolutely no reason at all.  And my childhood friend who just showed up on my doorstep with flowers, casseroles and chocolate pie.  And my PhilUP picture compliments of the amazing CJ.  My friends, you guys...both the emotional and rational side of me knows I'm very lucky.

I promise, the next time you hear from me it will be less sap and emotional diarrhea and more Banner jumping in puddles and sassing Trevor.  Until then...thank you.  From the bottom of my heart.

Always my baby you'll be...

My dear, beautiful baby -

I don't want to write this letter.  But I feel like I need to.  If for no other reason than it somehow proves that you existed; even if only for a very short time.

First of all, I want you to know you were loved.  And wanted.  From the get-go.  Your father and I had discussed trying to expand our family in 2014 and - BAM! - I discovered I was pregnant in January.  I was in denial for about a week, even though I suspected what was really going on.  Finally, I got around to taking a test, and all my suspicions were confirmed.  Still, it seemed surreal, so I went out and bought another test just in case the first one was the first false positive in the history of ever.  I told your daddy the next day.  The morning I took THIS picture, actually.

Dash Down Greenville with your daddy on March 15th.

I ran three races with you:  Too Cold to Hold 10 mile, The Hot Chocolate 15K and, finally, the Dash Down Greenville 5K on the Saturday before St. Patrick's Day.  I was tapering my running, and had plans to stop altogether once I started my second trimester.  During each race, I closely monitored my heart rate (as did your father).  During the Too Cold to Hold, your dad even turned to me and remarked how much he loved running with "just the three of us".  We hadn't told anyone yet, and you were just our little secret.

The only pictures
we have (or will
ever have) of you.

My first prenatal visit was on February 17th.  I was almost 7 weeks along.  Your heartbeat was a strong and healthy 138 beats per minute.  They estimated your due date to be October 8th, but the doctor strongly encouraged that I consider a planned c-section around the first of the month.  Secretly, I hoped your birthday would be October 2nd.  Partly because - if it was - you wouldn't have to share a birthday with anyone else in the family (we have A LOT of October birthdays around here), and partly because 2 is half of 4 (Banner's birthday), which is half of 8 (my birthday), which is half of 16 (your daddy's birthday).  Silly, I know.  But numbers, in my own strange way, are important to me.

After we left the doctor's office, we stopped at Carter's and picked up two BIG BROTHER shirts for Banner.  Your father was beaming.  He couldn't wait to share the news.

We told our family that you were on your way that weekend by dressing Banner up in one of his new shirts and waiting for someone to notice.  No one did.  We had to point it out to each of them separately.  Everyone was so happy.  Gran cried and Pa-Pa Mint couldn't wait to trumpet the news all over town.  You were a marvelous little ray of sunshine and hope amid a lot of family drama and illness this long, cold winter.

The only place I held back my excitement about you was around friends that have been trying to get pregnant, and have not yet been successful.  I wanted to be sensitive to their struggles.  I had at least one friend cry when I told her.  It was hard, I'm not going to lie.  And part of me was a little embarrassed.  Not because of you, sweet angel, but because you happened so quickly and easily for us at a time when so many others were struggling.

Your father and I went to your twelve week appointment on Monday, March 24th.  We were so excited to hear your little heartbeat again.  Everything seemed fine.  No signs at all that anything was wrong.

We chatted with the doctor about when we could determine your gender.  Your father was hoping it would be at our appointment in April, but I knew I wouldn't get another sonogram until between 16-20 weeks.  At our April appointment, I would be closer to 15.5...missing the minimum of 16 weeks by days.  We laughed, we joked, we listened about our doctor's recent trip to Israel.  They did a test to check for whatever they check for that can cause membrane rupture and premature labor.  Then, the doctor came over to listen for the heartbeat.  7 out of 10 times they can't find it because the baby is too close to the mother's veins/arteries.  Plus, I quipped that I had just eaten Tex Mex for lunch.  There was a lot of noise in my abdomen, none of it was yours.  The doctor said I was one of the "lucky ones", because "they had to hear or see the heartbeat at every appointment".  I got dressed and we waited to be called across the hall.

I think I was the only one at this point that suspected anything was amiss.  The doctor never had any trouble finding Banner's heartbeat during any of my prenatal visits back in 2011.  Of course, your dad chalked it up to my usual sense of catastrophism.  I wanted so desperately to believe him.

I knew in the first second of the sonogram that all my very worst fears were being realized.  It was simply too quiet.  Normally, they plug you in, and the dark room is instantly filled with the rapid whoosh, whoosh of a tiny, little heartbeat.  But there was nothing but silence.  And worse, nothing on the screen was moving.  You...my baby...weren't moving.

Still, I hoped I was wrong, and asked, "Is everything okay"?

The sonogram tech's answer?  A simple, sad, "No".

You died around 8 weeks, 5 days.  Right around the same time I last posted on this blog.  "Bob" the amaryllis bloomed beautifully that day.  He had another bloom that peaked earlier this week.  In some weird, cosmic sense, I'd like to believe that one bloom was for you and the other was for your dad and me.  Like the plant knew what was really going on.

The doctor was insistent that I didn't do anything wrong.  Over and over he told me it wasn't the running or the probiotics. The only way I could have "done this" was by breaking my pelvis in a car crash, and the likely culprit is something as simple as bad chromosomes.  Still, I blame myself.  I can't help it.  And I am so, so, so very sorry.

Pharrell's "Happy" was on the radio when we left the doctor's office Monday afternoon.

Since my body wasn't letting go on its own, the doctor said we needed to do a D&C.  But, because of scheduling, they originally didn't think this could happen until Thursday morning.  At first, I thought this would give me time to come to grips with everything and let it all sink in.  But, by Tuesday morning, I was a wreck.  Part of me didn't want to let you go, but the other part knew that I couldn't begin the process of...I dunno...wherever we go from here?...while you were still inside me.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother called my GYN, who is also a family friend, and she called me.  She then called my OBGYN and somehow got the D&C bumped up to Wednesday morning.

So, yesterday, your father drove us to Baylor Surgical.  We arrived just before 6 AM.  The procedure was scheduled for 7:30.

For some reason, the hardest part of this for me was knowing that you were going to be removed from, taken to the lab to be studied and tested and then declared "medical waste" and thrown away.  I mean, rationally, I get it.  The you that was there was tiny.  And it had been awhile since your little heart stopped beating.  The doctor wasn't even sure they'd be able to find what used to be you in with everything else.  But still.  I wanted you to be acknowledged somehow.  I wanted you to know that are loved, and were loved for every second of the (exactly) 12 weeks you spent inside me.  I know you never grew to be much more than a collection of cells, but our hopes and dreams for you were infinitely large.

Pharrell's "Happy" was playing just before the nurse led me back to the operating room for the procedure.

I couldn't stop crying.  Just as everything was starting to get hazy from the anesthesia, I asked my doctor to tell you that I loved you.  It was stupid, I know.  And I doubt he actually did it.  It was just that - in the last few moments before the anesthesia took effect and I fell asleep - it occurred to me that he was the last and possibly only person that would see whatever tiny part of you that there ever was.  The last thing I remember was him holding my hand and saying that he would.  And, then...nothing.

I awoke 45 minutes later.  It was over.  You were gone.  Forever.

I've cried more in the last three days than I think I have in my entire life.  The more I try to move forward, the more I find I can't move at all.  I have no appetite.  I wake up in the middle of the night and can't go back to sleep.  I know I'm depressed.  I'm all achy from the D&C but refuse to take anything because it somehow makes me feel better to feel pain on the outside for a change.  I know that sounds crazy and masochistic, but it is what it is.  Tomorrow, I'm making myself go to work.  I don't know if I'll make it all day or not, but I have to get out of the house.  I have to try.

Really the idea of seeing people scares me the most.  I don't want to see "sad eyes" looking at me.  I don't want to hear that I can try again.  I don't want people to tell me "it wasn't meant to be" and that "everything happens for a reason".  Because I already get it.  I know that nature isn't going to let something develop that has no chance of survival.  That's why things like this happen, and why they (generally) happen early.  Statistically, I'm aware that this shouldn't happen after already having a healthy baby two years ago, and the chances of miscarriage are lower still after hearing an otherwise strong and healthy heartbeat during that initial sonogram back in February.  Still, it happens.  And it has happened to people I know.  Heck, even my maternal grandmother had a miscarriage between her first and second child (she went on to have three more healthy babies).  But in this case, all the knowing in the world isn't helping me right now.  I just want to go back to this time last week when everything - as I knew it - was right and fine with the world, and I was looking forward to my 12 week appointment and hearing your heartbeat again.

Banner proudly brought this to me in bed on Wednesday after my D&C.

Of course, the greatest sources of comfort and joy right now are your father and big brother, Banner.  Banner isn't a snuggler at all, but in the last three days he has piled up in bed, read me books and watched Finding Nemo at my side.  He knows something is wrong.  On Monday evening, he put all his trains in timeout.  When your daddy asked him why, Banner said, "Because they are sad".

Breaks my heart.

Thomas in timeout.

And your father.  What would I ever do without your father?  You were his baby, too, after all.  In all this grief and sadness, he has been the strong one.  He has picked up your brother from school, run errands and taken care of me.  And that hasn't been easy - especially not with me sobbing quietly from the bedroom for days on end.

So, yes, I am counting my blessings.  I know how lucky I am to have to have my boys.  Many women never get to experience motherhood, and I have a healthy toddler running amuck just down the hall.  Some women are not able to get pregnant at all, and - so far - I've been able to get pregnant pretty easily.  But none of that changes how I will wish from now until the end of time that I got to meet you, see your face and be your mom.

Faith has always been a very private thing for me.  I believe in God.  I believe in Heaven.  I go to church.  Heck, I've taught Sunday School before.  Granted, I haven't gone regularly since your brother was born, but not because my faith has faltered.  I like going to church.  I like the music, the history, the symbolism.  I believe you are in Heaven now.  I know God has another mission for you, and part of me even thinks it is you - not DJs overplaying it on the radio - that keeps that d@mn "Happy" song playing wherever I go.  Because I know you are fine, and it is just taking me a little while to get used to the fact that I'll have to wait a lifetime to meet you and see your face.

(For that matter, I've also had to stop watching TV shows with commercials because I keep seeing trailers for the new movie Heaven Is For Real, and I simply can't take it right now.)

Just know that you are loved, wanted and greatly missed down here on Earth. They may have been brief, but your 12 weeks inside me mattered and affected us all. And your father and I will never, ever forget you.

“I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always, 

as long as I’m living 

my baby you’ll be.” 

Love you forever and always,
Your Mom