Your birthday is tomorrow. It feels strange to call it a birthday, but sounds better than the anniversary of your death. Which is what it is. I've had to be at the hospital for testing on your sister this past week. To get to the room, I have to walk by the room where you were born. I'd never ever seen that room from the outside before. I just remember the number. The door has been closed both times, and I wonder how the mom is doing in there? I lived in that room for about a week, and then delivered you there. I wasn't meant to deliver you there, but on the day you were born, the hospital set some sort of record for babies born and they were out of rooms. So they just let me deliver there. And that's where I held you, where you were baptized, and where I said goodbye to you. It's where all of my worst nightmares now take place.
In some ways this has been the longest year of my life, and in some ways it's flown by. I keep referring to it as a "lost year." Even though we really have done a lot since you left us, I've mostly felt paralyzed with grief and fear. We lost you in August, lost your great-grams in October and then were pregnant with your sister at the end of January. A busy six months for sure, especially when you add in the house we bought in December and moved in to in February. Still, it feels like I haven't really lived much in this past year. Like I've just been anxiously anticipating each day. So worried over this pregnancy, shocked with the news of twins, saddened with the loss of one of them, and then just praying each week that things would be ok with this pregnancy.
And while it hasn't been easy, it's been worth it. It's been worth the worry and the struggles. And I know the eventual pay off will make this past year seem like a distant memory. At least I hope so.
I've changed dramatically in this past year. I care a lot more about being with your daddy and might even use him as a security blanket now, where I never felt that way before. I'm less concerned with material things and less concerned with others in general. I've prioritized my friendships, but still feel distant from a lot of people I once felt close to. I've noticed I don't take many pictures anymore. I used to take so many. I know I'm more compassionate and maybe even more patient towards others. I know most of these things will make me a better mom to your sister than I ever could have been before experiencing the pain of your loss. I'm hoping some of the negative things will change, once I am a day to day mom and feel like I can breathe again. I was overjoyed to be your mom, but now it's been taken to a whole new level of anticipation and love.
I looked at your pictures today. So far, I am the only one who has ever seen them. They are hard to see. Very hard. And I am overcome with tears as I write to you and picture your little tiny face and hands. So perfect and so small.
Thinking of you is still so, so hard for us. I try to think of you less, to try to ease the pain, but it's impossible. You are in my thoughts every day. Every day since the day I knew you existed. You will never leave my mind.
This weekend we attended a mass held in your honor at your Great-Grandmom's church. Hearing your name announced on a microphone was very jarring. Even though I knew it was coming, my whole body shook. I don't think I've ever heard someone say your first and last name before. I've certainly never heard it announced. And while I was holding back tears, the recognition of your existence was very, very validating. It was nice to meet the members of the church as many of them have prayed for you and continue to pray for me. Your dad and I both felt you with us and we are really glad we were able to attend.
Tomorrow will be a hard day for sure, I want to do something to recognize the day, but I'm not sure what, exactly. Know you are always on my mind and a piece of my heart will forever be missing.
I love you,