We knew you for three days before we mourned you. We no more understood your existence and you were suddenly gone in an instant.
“I’m so sorry, but I’m positive you’re experiencing a miscarriage. The amount of blood gives me no other option than to believe you’re miscarrying.”
I’ve never experienced death.
Let me rephrase: I have experienced it in family pets, and distant family friends: but no one ever so close to me. Nothing that ever hit home so suddenly or heartbreaking as you. Someone who I hadn’t even met yet, but already loved so much and daydreamed about for hours.
I cried. I cried that you were gone, and I selfishly cried tears of “this allows me more time with the child I already have.” I pride myself on trying to see the positive in every situation, yet trying to find the positive side in a lost pregnancy seemed like a sick cause.
Three long, terrifying days later I went in to get testing done to make sure you fully passed, and weren’t ectopic. The expectation here was low to none HCG levels, and no viable signs via ultrasound.
Except that’s not what happened.
I was told that in those three days our levels had more than tripled, and that we needed an ultrasound to confirm your growth. A few more days passed and I was able to witness your little heart flutter like a beat of a drum.
Ever since then, I’ve been selfish with you. You’re a miracle in every definition of the word, and I want to protect you from the outside for as long as I can.
We’ve faced our fair share of challenges, like being told you may have a chromosomal abnormality (same thing we were told with your Brother), or that the odds of Gestational diabetes ran extremely high, and that your placenta is laying low so I need to prepare myself mentally for an emergency c-section.
Today, we added another “what-if” to your list: preeclampsia.
I should know in the next 24 hours (hopefully) if I will be meeting you in the next weeks or so, or if you can hang in there for 9 more. Either way, I know it’s all a part of your story, and that’s something I remind myself of daily.
Whenever and however you decide to arrive, please know that although you didn’t receive all the hoopla and social media bragging as your brother: it was all for a reason. You are loved just as much, and will forever be my miracle child.
You have reminded me that life is never just sunshine and rainbows, and absolutely refuses to go as planned. But that’s the joy in it, I think. To expect the unexpected, yet still be in shock when you see the results.
I can (and very fully cannot) wait to meet you, babe. I think often about the color of your eyes, and if you’ll have hair like Scott did or not. I’m betting on hazel like mine, but of course I wouldn’t mind another blue eyed babe to love on.
Like I tell your brother,
To the Moon, Mars, and back again.
I love you.