I know, it probably sounds weird. There are so many wonderful things going on in my life right now, but every year, I "survive" June. Every June I think to myself, "Wow, this summer my first baby would be ____ years old." Judge me how you will.
This summer that baby would be three years old. I remember once I had the methotrexate to "end" my ectopic pregnancy everyone gave me their "encouraging" words:
-Everything happens for a reason.
-This was part of God's plan.
-At least you know you can get pregnant.
To this day, the public discourse about pregnancy loss shocks me. The way that families, friends, and health care providers minimalize this experience for parents quite frankly just pisses me off. Certainly, I cannot be alone.
While the memory of my first baby is always with me, I am choosing, to honor his or her third birthday (I assumed girl when I found out I was pregnant and wanted to name her Olivia) with this poem posted on Prolific Motherhood. It is so beautiful and captures the pain of pregnancy and motherhood lost:
A Poem by Gary Winters to "Little One"
We had wanted you for so very long,
Or so it must have seemed at times.
Now we know we'll have forever,
To keep you in our minds.
On that joyful day when we learned
That you were on your way,
We opened our home and hearts,
And planned for a permanent stay.
We never saw your smile.
We never held your hand.
You never had your birthday.
How can we understand?
To hear you laugh, to dry your tear
To share your life each day
To see the wonder in your eyes
As you find your rightful way.
We're told we should forget you,
"You'll have another some day."
Don't they see the pain we feel,
Is bruised by what they say?
We never saw your smile.
We never held your hand.
You never had your birthday.
Someday we'll understand.
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