Hello darling son,
I’ve often wondered how I would share about the brother and sister that came before you. I’ve wondered how I would explain that although you are the first one to come home with us there were two others that we loved before you; that we still love. I don’t know when I will give you this letter. By the time you read or hear this, you will have probably noticed the foot imprints tattooed on my arm, the candles that we light on April 14 and October 15, the small box etched with their names on the shelf in our room, or the black and white photo of Daddy and I holding the tiniest bundles. There are small markers of them throughout our house and I wonder what questions you might have.
Daddy and I had to work hard to get pregnant. And it is without shame that I tell you we received help from a doctor. In January of 2016, we did IVF and ended up with three perfect embryos. We placed two in and froze one – you. I wanted you all so very much. With joy we found out the first two took! We made it through our first trimester and crossed over the safety line of miscarriage territory. But at 16 weeks, I woke with terrible pain. It was a blur of 24 hours of back labor and bed tilts to try to stop the inevitable. At 16 weeks and 1 day, your brother Finnian was born still. As we held him and rocked his small body, the labor started again. In a blaze of fury, your sister Maisie was born, heart beating for only a moment. The photo on our wall is from this day, April 14, the day of their birth and passing.
I can’t tell you why they came so early or why you didn’t get to meet them. When I was pregnant with you I would close my eyes and imagine that they had left you hieroglyphics on the walls of my uterus, notes along the womb about their small life, utterings about what Mommy’s heart sounds like from the inside. Now, as you rambunctiously toddle around the house I often wonder what your world would’ve been like if you were growing up with older twin siblings.
You are pure joy. You make us incredibly happy and I hope, oh how much I hope, that is always evident in your life. Yet, you may notice our tears or have questions about the babies we loved before you. So I’m going to do my best to tell you a couple things about how the heart works.
The heart expands. There may be times in your life where you feel great pain. And despite my best efforts to prevent it (because I will always try), your heart will break. There may be times dear son, where you never feel that the pieces will get put back together. Those pieces may not. But as my mother explained to me, the heart will expand: it will grow to accept more love, it will enlarge and multiply. Despite the cracks in my heart, it grew more for you. I did not, could not, replace my love for them, just as I could never replace my love for you.
I loved them first, but it doesn’t change my love for you. It doesn’t make me wish for a different life. It’s a difficult concept in grief – when you shut off you’re your analytical brain with its “if thens, then thats..” you will find that you can indeed hold joy and grief simultaneously. It all stems from love – the missing and the enjoying. I can miss them and the life we would’ve all had together and still 100 percent enjoy and want and love the life we do have together. I can hold both pieces without dishonoring either. Which means, darling, I love this life with you, I am completely happy with you, and I could not possibly love you anymore. So if you see me cry, or hold their picture close, or look wistfully caught in a daydream, it’s because I love them so much – and I love you so much.
I know you better. We’ve had more time to play together, to learn each other, and to experience things together. I can’t tell you what games your brother would want to play or what kind of jokes your sister would have told. I can’t tell you their favorite colors or the way their voices sounded. I can’t tell you what ice cream flavor they would pick or birthday theme they would want. I don’t know these things about them like I do you. Sometimes this is the hardest part of my grief. Sometimes it is what makes my grief easier to swallow. When you lose an infant in pregnancy or shortly after, you don’t have the same things to share with others. This can make the grief feel quiet, hidden, disguised, and sometimes less important. It isn’t though – I loved them as much as I have loved any other person, but I don’t have the memories of them to live with.
I’m more aware of the specialness of every moment. The other thing about this kind of grief is that it can change your make up. I’m aware of moments that might have passed me by before. I don’t have the same exhaustion about parenting trials such as no sleep, spit up in your mouth, or tantrums that many do. I’m more conscious of the beauty in our mundane moments because my senses are heightened. Finnian and Maisie helped me be more loving, more connected, and more appreciative than I would have been. Their brief lives made me a better mom. Sorry in advance for all of the extra hugs and kisses and sentimentality, I just know how very special it is to have you. Very, very special.
Love forever,
Your Mom
*** Today is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. All across the nation people will light candles in memory of their babies at 7 p.m. I will be lighting one each for Finnian and Maisie, in their honor and in memory of all the other little ones gone too soon.
Please join me.
