A Letter to the Lost

Dear Lost One,

Two months have past since I lost you, but in a blink of an eye I can go back to the day I found out you would never take a breath, that I would never hear your cry, that you would never take your uncertain and wobbly first steps.  I can only hope that, even though your life was brief, that you could feel the power of my love.  It's a love that only a mother can feel for a baby.

Sometimes I feel everyone thinks I should be over it.  No one ever asks anymore how I'm doing or how I'm feeling.  Things have gotten much easier but sometimes out of nowhere I am struck by the raw pain and reality of losing you.  Like when I was packing up the attic and found my old maternity clothes or at your sister's birthday party when I realized that I should be proudly sporting a 16 week bump, or when I see two small sisters dancing together and I'm reminded that I've failed to provide that bond for Isabella.

I can relive every moment of it with such vivid clarity that I'm sure remembrance is the sweetest curse.  I can remember knowing something was wrong long before a doctor told me so.  I remember the bruises from the countless blood draws.  I remember sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's office surrounded by women whose bellies swelled with promise.  I remember biting back the tears that burned in my eyes when I was talking to the doctor about the methotrexate.  Sometimes I relive it at night like a movie that I can't turn off, like a ghost that haunts me.

Most days I'm ok.  Most days I'm happy.  Most days I miss you less than the day before.  But you will always be a part of me.  A part of me that knows what it means to understand loss.  A part that will always count you as her baby.  My sweet little lost one.

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