Ten years ago I sat down on this day and cried buckets as I wrote this letter to our sweet, lost baby Eliza. I prayed that each year it would become easier as this day and her actual delivery day came to pass. I’m sorry to report that it isn’t much easier at all. I still find myself sad each year as I think about your brief life and how profoundly changed I found myself after we lost her.
I spent years wondering if I’d ever, for lack of a better description, “get my sparkle back.” I did, sort of. It looks different now. A little less bravado, a bit more reserved. A little less optimistic, a touch more serious.
I find myself looking at our dining room table, the brilliant faces of our four beautiful children chattering, seated around us. And I look around for her. I feel the missing of a child I didn’t get to know. I am always looking for five. It is strange and unnerving at times, but it is just because my heart still beats and so it still, always, misses her presence in our family.
You’ll find my original piece below. But first, please know:
If you are grieving, just know that you are not alone. Everyone who loves will eventually grieve. Be gentle with yourself.
It could have been today. Or yesterday. Or last week. But your birthday isn’t coming. That possibility came and went that day in the doctor’s office when our doctor hunted for your heartbeat. It went that day when I walked across the hall to the ultrasound room, clutching my husband’s hand as my stomach knotted up into knots of knots. It went when the nurse put the wand to my swollen belly, and I saw that cute little profile. Still. Frozen in time. Unchanging for eternity. Gone. Your day of joining this world as a living, breathing child with parents who would celebrate your birthday was gone. Stolen from you. And us.
My heart broke that day. I swallowed hard and felt the shards of it swelling up from somewhere deep within my chest. As the tears rolled down my cheeks, I felt the hot numbness wash over me. This can’t be real. This isn’t my life. This isn’t how this day is supposed to happen.
As my husband pulled me into our car, I clutched him and felt even worse. I was overcome by the feeling that I let him down. I let our baby down. I let myself down. My body failed us. I am broken. This is my fault. How could this happen to us? And I knew that it went. Your birthday wasn’t coming.
As I lay in the hospital for three days, my body refusing to deliver my precious baby girl, I knew that your birthday wasn’t coming. I knew. I wept. I begged. I pleaded. I cried out to God, asking him why he was breaking my heart in such a way. I begged God to carry me through the physical act of delivery. My husband begged me to let the nurse give me medicine so I could sleep. To numb my pain that he couldn’t bear to watch. I refused. I wanted to be coherent and present of mind when my body did decide to do what it must.
And you came. After 41 hours of emotional hell, you came. And you were perfect and beautiful. You were tiny, but I held you in my arms and took in all of your beauty. I memorized your little nose, and studied your slender fingers. And I wept. I clutched my mom’s hand as I watched your daddy hold you. And I wept. I hurt. My heart broke again. Today was not your birthday. April 6th is the day we said hello and goodbye, not your birthday.
And so in the days, weeks, and months that came after this, I waited. I waited for this day to come. I knew it was coming. September always follows August. What I didn’t know was how it would feel. And so September is here now, and so are the feelings. They’re awful; stabbing and sharp. Fresh and new. Vivid memories of sadness that haven’t yet began to fade. And so as I look in the mirror at my tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, I tell myself that I know that you’re whole now. I know that you’re with me, a corridor of my heart dedicated just to you. But what hurts the most is waking up today knowing that today could have been your birthday, sweet girl.
