To My Dear Child… February 13, 2012Posted by dreamom in Faith, family, Fears, Home, Life, Parenting, Pregnancy Loss.
I never thought I would have to say goodbye to you before I met you, but here we are. You are gone to heaven, and I am carrying your body in me just waiting for this last part of you to leave me. You are gone and I have never seen your face, counted your toes, or kissed your fingers. I will never have that moment when you are fresh from the womb, dripping with amniotic fluid to see you squinting at me and feel your breathing on my chest. I will never feed you at my breast, as I have all your siblings. Those things feel really huge and sad right now, and I am trying to understand why you didn’t stay longer.
Part of me feels really guilty. Guilty for not cherishing the annoyances of pregnancy for the sheer fact that you were with me. I didn’t know that was all the time we had. If I did, I would like to think that I would have jumped for joy when I was throwing up. Grinned with sheer glee as my ligaments felt tight and sore. Smiled as my hips pained me with the sciatica. Danced with enthusiasm when I thought that the exhaustion was going to overtake me. I didn’t though. I complained, I scowled, I grumbled that the pregnancy was not easier – then poof. You were gone. Did I chase you off? I know in my heart that I didn’t – That your life on earth was meant to be a mere vapour – the purpose for which I can’t conceive.
I have struggled for the last week and a half with letting you go. Physically I have tried to induce your birth for the past week. Nothing is working. I COULD go to the hospital and force you out, but I can’t do that. You are holding onto me for a reason – or me to you. If I rush that I know that I will miss out. On what? Grief, sadness, anxiety, pain? Maybe. What I am afraid of though is that I will miss out on healing. I will miss out on that moment of accepting that this is the totality of our parent/child relationship. I conceived you, grew you for a mere moment (or so it feels), and now I have to let you go. Not for you though – When I let you go has no impact on you at all. You are HOME. You are with God. The only piece of you that my body is clinging to is not important to you anymore. For me – it is all I have. The empty shell of you. I never got to witness the person that was in the shell. I don’t know how to be okay with that until I meet you in heaven. I need to though.
I am hurt, and angry, and confused at how this has happened. I can’t hold onto that though. I need to be active and participate to wade Kyle through his impending adolescence. He needs my focus and energy, so I need to leave you in my past so that I can do that. Libby is such a nervous and anxious little waif, and she needs me to teach her bravery, and trust. I can’t do that if I am holding onto fears and doubts. She needs my time to teach her how to be a woman of God, and to develop her potential – I can’t do that if I am living in the past where I have you with me. Jordan is smart as a whip, but is having problems. Behind on his speech and I won’t even start into the potty training or the problem of beating on Micah every chance he gets. He needs me to focus on his weak areas and to help him overcome his difficulties – whatever they may be. Micah is starting everything. Talking, potty training, learning social skills. He needs me to teach him everything I know, and to nurse him down at night so that he slows down and rests. I can’t do that if I am so wrapped up in you and your brief stay with me that I can’t see or attend to their needs. We absolutely wanted you, and had room for you, but I need to accept that you are gone. That you DON’T need me. That is why I need to let you go. I don’t really know what that is going to involve yet, but the first step is to birth your body to this world. I need to let go of it.
It is scary to contemplate. I have managed in the last week to get myself to a point where I could eat and function again, but what about when I REALLY let you go? How much is that going to hurt? How am I going to be able to let you go? First your body, and then your lack of presence. How will I be able to let you go THAT much. Will I ever have a day where I don’t think about you, or try to find out what went wrong? Will I ever accept that you were never meant to breathe the same air as me, or suckle at my breast? Will I ever accept that I was never meant to nurture, raise, and hold you like I was the others? I hope so. I am told I will, but right now I can’t fathom that…
I love you, my child. Until we meet in heaven watch over us, wait for us, and know that we love you. We will always love you.