When the doctor first calculated your due date last year in June, January 30th seemed so far away. I couldn't imagine having to wait so many months to meet you. I was ecstatic to finally be pregnant after all the troubles your daddy and I had endured, and I felt so in awe...so grateful...so joyful at the knowledge that I was going to be a mommy at last.
I loved you so much...from that very first day. I look back at the journal entries I wrote to you during that first trimester of my pregnancy, and I am transported back to the overwhelming feeling of pride...of absolute wonder...of anticipation for your arrival. At the same time, my heart breaks all over again, as I think about how long it'll be until I meet you. Now, nine short months doesn't seem so long to wait.
LJ, we hadn't yet learned if you--our precious first child--were a boy or a girl, but I have always thought of you as my little girl. I would talk to you, while caressing my swelling belly, and picture what you would look like...the wispy sandy-blond hair, the chubby red cheeks, the clear blue eyes...
After we found out we'd lost you, it was the hardest thing in the world waiting for you to leave me...knowing that you leaving was indeed inevitable. That first night I laid in bed with my hands on my belly, knowing that you were still there, lifeless, inside me. I felt so ashamed, wavering back and forth between whether I wanted, selfishly, to keep you that way forever, or have you ripped from my womb quickly--like a band-aid--to lessen the pain.
Little by little, you and I said good-bye, which allowed me to fully immerse myself in all the sorrow and rage that had left me feeling like a hollow shell of the person I once was. Losing you that way was the hardest thing I've ever done. I found myself cursing my doctor's careful recommendation to "do this naturally," wishing for that D&C that is so typically ordered by doctors--the more humane option, really, for women going through such a loss--to help lessen the intensity of both the physical and emotional pain.
It's hard for me to admit this to you, LJ, that once I knew your spirit was no longer with me, I just wanted your broken, tiny body to be gone--as well as all physical reminders that you had once been there. On some days, I wanted to forget you'd ever existed. I'm so sorry for those feelings, sweetie. I know now that they stemmed only from being unable to fully process my grief at having lost you. It hurt so bad, already loving you so much, wanting you so much, then losing you almost as quickly as you had been gifted to us. I was so angry...so confused...so completely and utterly devastated.
Now, today, you were due to come meet us for the first time. Nine months later. The past few weeks have been difficult for me, LJ, as other mothers who became pregnant around the same time as me have just recently delivered their beautiful, healthy children. How I long to join them. How jealous I am of them, in my dark moments of weakness.
Some mornings I will wake up, hoping for one brief, fuzzy instant that all of this has been just a horrible nightmare, and that I'll look down and see you're still there--a comforting protrusion proving you're still alive deep inside me.
LJ, not a day goes by that I don't think of you. I want you to know that I am thinking about you even more than usual today, thanking God for giving you to us, if only for those few short months. I will always be grateful that you were a part of our lives. My love for you will never lessen. I want you to know that, ok? You will always be my first child. You will always, in my mind, be my little girl. I will always remember those first talks, those first words I wrote to you. I hope that you will, too.
And, finally, I know that even though you're not here with me today--on what might've been your birthday--you are not alone. Grandma Bea and the daughter she lost, Lorraine, are taking care of you until I can come join you. If you can't be here with me on this special day, precious LJ, there is no other place I'd rather you be.
Love Always,
Mama
