Written October 2019... a year later I would be full term with Reed's little sibling, Andrew. Bittersweet to see one grow up and only know a tiny bit about another.
Hey bud. It's mom. Your due date is this week and I can't help but to just feel stuck. Losing you, in some ways, was nothing new. We had lost Ruby, Rhys, and Rosie in quick succession in the Summer and Fall. Loss was becoming my jam, apparently. However, you seemed different. You stuck past week 4 and week 5. You gained the nickname Afrie by Callie and Dilly from Erin by week 6. We said "I think we are truly bringing home a baby in October" as familiar morning sickness hit and beta numbers looked good. At week 7, though, you looked small. "Dates must be wrong... conception happened late..." and other colloquialisms were said to give hope in a it-doesn't-look-good situation. At week 8 you were there, same size, but this time a painfully beautiful slowly beating heart flickered on that screen. You were sick, it was apparent, and were not going to be coming home with us in October. Your heart would stop. But you were there. Your heart had begun to beat. You were mine. Just not mine to keep. At week 9, your heart was confirmed to have stopped and at exactly 10 weeks, I began to miscarry you. This miscarriage would kick off the most intense and absurd early loss that I have heard of to date. It was hard. Long. Messy. Exhausting. Traumatic. It stripped me to my core and shattered any bit of perspective and sound rational I had left. Reed. You broke me. But broken isn't bad. Broken can be put back together. Broken can be stronger than before, however at the time of the breaking, broken feels crushing.
Broken felt heavy.
Broken felt suffocating.
Broken felt unfair.
Broken felt alarming.
Broken felt lethargic.
Broken felt aimless.
Broken felt distracting.
Broken felt wrong.
Broken felt stripping.
Broken felt weakening.
Broken walked in, sat down, and insisted on becoming my friend. Through broken I began to hold onto who you were. Through broken, I experienced loss on an level that I hadn't before. Through broken I was forced to go slow. Through broken I was forced to reach outside myself. Through broken I was forced to take help, and focus on myself; something that doesn't come naturally to a mom-of-many. Broken also helped me to find journal writing. Broken helped me to find really great reading and resources. Broken helped me to find the friendships that truly mattered and were healthy. Broken helped me to strip back everything unnecessary. Broken gave me perspective and broken allowed me to see the unhealthy, unnecessary, and inappropriate in life like a blazing neon sign. Broken forced me to rebuild and, slowly, I did just that.
Your physical loss was over sometime in May, after starting back in March. I took the summer to process the emotional end of losing you. For action steps, I took June to begin working on clean eating, something I could control, since in the world of loss so much is out of your control. In July I began exercising daily again. In August, I began all the right supplements. In September I met with my new fertility doctor and new OB, new game plans formed. In October, as your due date approaches, all those "what ifs" float to the surface even more clearly than before. It doesn't matter what I've done to prepare for what, if anything, lies ahead. What sits on my heart is YOU.
I have 2 friends who were due within weeks of me... within weeks of you. They both welcomed their healthy baby boys in the last week. Would you be late like your siblings or would you be here by now? Would I have gotten a natural birth? Would you tip the scales and top Annie's 9 pounds? Would you have a head of hair like Josh or peach fuzz like Elizabeth? Would you be long and lean, or deliciously rolly? Would you be docile and calm, or make your little self known? How would it look to have a tiny baby and much older big siblings? I've only ever welcomed babies home to tiny "big" siblings. Would they resent you? Would they understand and click back into baby-mode like it's old hat? Would I wear you often like I did when I had many little ones, or would I not have to since you and we would be home, just us, fairly often? Would you capture Annie and my blue eyes or would you look just like the rest of them? Would I be good at juggling big kids and tiny you?
These questions swirl and continue through all your ages, stages, life milestones, and moments. I won't see your triumph of first steps, the uncertainty and then excitement wiggly teeth,. I won't tangibly know the power of "mom" when something goes awry and I can fix it just.like.that. I won't get to watch you with new teachers, your own interests, first friends, first dates.... I won't see your cap and gown. I won't know the pain of you leaving home for the first time. I won't know how you look in a wedding tux, or meet your other half.
None of these will happen. None of these blanks get filled or answers are found.
Because you are gone. You were here. There was proof of you. You were documented and now you are gone: intangible, as if I dreamed you. In early pregnancy loss you are left with so little. It's almost easy to feel or even act like you didn't hold space or time, but you did. You were here. You were real. You existed.
So as I walk toward your due date, I wonder... I wonder who you are, who you truly are and how it will feel to meet you face to face: soul to soul one day.
I want to thank you for being here, for the time you were. I don't regret anything that I went through because of you. I wish with every piece of me that you were still here, still growing, still thriving, however, I feel blessed to have been chosen as the one to carry you for those 10 weeks. My Reed, you will always be a part of my story and always have a piece of my heart.
I love you,
Mom
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