To the child I lost
Dear Kitten,
The day I found out I was going to be a mommy was the scariest, happiest day I can remember, equal in happiness only to the day I married your daddy. The day it was confirmed that I lost you was the saddest day of my life.
I remember the day I lost you. After all, it was less than two weeks ago. It was Saturday, the day before Mother's Day. I woke up and you were quiet for the first time since I connected with you. People say at six weeks, you don't feel your baby, which is true. I never felt you move. Your heart wasn't even beating yet. But we connected in a way that I can never describe to anyone accurately. In fact, I think only women who have been pregnant can fully understand that statement. You talked to me all the time and I to you.
You hated broccoli, loved beets. Hated the taste of coffee but loved the smell. And spicy food, god you loved spicy food. More than I do. Tacos too. You settled when I spoke to you or sang to you. Dancing made you dizzy, but you never made me stop.
That Saturday morning, I woke up and you were quiet. I was able to make and drink my decaf coffee. I didn't have morning sickness as I twirled around the kitchen, singing to you that special song that I only sang to you.
After your daddy woke up and we laughed at your existence, talking in our own private way, you left me. It didn't hurt. I almost didn't see you. You really were the size of a lentil.
The rest of the day, I was worried that you had in fact left. You were too quiet. My symptoms of pregnancy were fading fast. The first thing I lost after you was the glow. Second was the soreness and sickness. The bleeding started a bit later.
On Mother's Day, I was hurting more and bleeding more. I cried in my own mother's arms that I didn't want to lose you, even though deep down I knew I had already.
On Monday, I called half a dozen doctors before I found one willing to see me that day. I still showed pregnant on their tests. They found a mass near you and sent me to the hospital. I kept asking if you were there. No one knew for sure. The first clue was the fact my hormones were a lot lower than they should have been. The doctor tried to say it was because you were much younger than I thought but I knew. You were no more.
The second doctor got my hopes up by saying they saw your little sack when I mentioned passing what I thought was you. But every time I tried talking to you, you ignored me. I told you in the hospital that if you had left me, to find a better mommy, a mommy that could bring you into this world. But all I wanted, all I want is to hold you just once.
One night, I honestly thought you woke back up. I felt a spark again. But I guess it was just high hopes. The next day, they said my pregnancy levels dropped and even though they wouldn't say it, I knew. I knew you truly were gone.
It wasn't until the following Monday before any doctor or nurse would say the word "miscarriage" to me. They would only say my hormone levels were dropping, something that "normal, healthy pregnancies" don't do. Prior to that Monday, when I asked about the bleeding and the tissue, I was told to rest. I was told if the pain got too much or if the bleeding was too heavy to go back to the hospital.
I have cried every single day since I lost you. And I don't know when I will stop. The fact they are tossing around the word "cancer" doesn't make me cry. The fact that if it is cancer makes me hate myself for letting you even be conceived. The pain I feel inside my womb now has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the likelihood that I have another large cyst growing. I've been down this road before. Treatment for cysts means birth control pills if it isn't cancer. In other words, pills that would prevent another you from being created. And I don't know if that is a good thing or a very sad thing.
This morning started off great. But then I saw a little family and I lost it. My office door is staying closed until I know I can go through the day without crying or having to leave early.
Your daddy continues to be the support I need. He makes sure I eat, sleep and stay as happy as he can make me. He will scoop me up just to dance or for a tight hug when I can't seem to stop the tears or heartache. Sometimes keeping me happy means making silly goat impressions in public places. Luckily, he doesn't much mind being silly just to make me smile.
Your birthday should have been January 4th. Instead you left this plane of existence on May 13th.
Maybe I will get lucky and one day find your little soul again, either in the form of another pregnancy, one that goes to term, or by adopting you, or even by being the fun, crazy aunt you adore. If I never find you in this life, there is always the next.
But Kitten, I miss you. I love you and I miss you. And I will always wonder who you would have grown up to be.
Love always,
Your Mommy
The day I found out I was going to be a mommy was the scariest, happiest day I can remember, equal in happiness only to the day I married your daddy. The day it was confirmed that I lost you was the saddest day of my life.
I remember the day I lost you. After all, it was less than two weeks ago. It was Saturday, the day before Mother's Day. I woke up and you were quiet for the first time since I connected with you. People say at six weeks, you don't feel your baby, which is true. I never felt you move. Your heart wasn't even beating yet. But we connected in a way that I can never describe to anyone accurately. In fact, I think only women who have been pregnant can fully understand that statement. You talked to me all the time and I to you.
You hated broccoli, loved beets. Hated the taste of coffee but loved the smell. And spicy food, god you loved spicy food. More than I do. Tacos too. You settled when I spoke to you or sang to you. Dancing made you dizzy, but you never made me stop.
That Saturday morning, I woke up and you were quiet. I was able to make and drink my decaf coffee. I didn't have morning sickness as I twirled around the kitchen, singing to you that special song that I only sang to you.
After your daddy woke up and we laughed at your existence, talking in our own private way, you left me. It didn't hurt. I almost didn't see you. You really were the size of a lentil.
The rest of the day, I was worried that you had in fact left. You were too quiet. My symptoms of pregnancy were fading fast. The first thing I lost after you was the glow. Second was the soreness and sickness. The bleeding started a bit later.
On Mother's Day, I was hurting more and bleeding more. I cried in my own mother's arms that I didn't want to lose you, even though deep down I knew I had already.
On Monday, I called half a dozen doctors before I found one willing to see me that day. I still showed pregnant on their tests. They found a mass near you and sent me to the hospital. I kept asking if you were there. No one knew for sure. The first clue was the fact my hormones were a lot lower than they should have been. The doctor tried to say it was because you were much younger than I thought but I knew. You were no more.
The second doctor got my hopes up by saying they saw your little sack when I mentioned passing what I thought was you. But every time I tried talking to you, you ignored me. I told you in the hospital that if you had left me, to find a better mommy, a mommy that could bring you into this world. But all I wanted, all I want is to hold you just once.
One night, I honestly thought you woke back up. I felt a spark again. But I guess it was just high hopes. The next day, they said my pregnancy levels dropped and even though they wouldn't say it, I knew. I knew you truly were gone.
It wasn't until the following Monday before any doctor or nurse would say the word "miscarriage" to me. They would only say my hormone levels were dropping, something that "normal, healthy pregnancies" don't do. Prior to that Monday, when I asked about the bleeding and the tissue, I was told to rest. I was told if the pain got too much or if the bleeding was too heavy to go back to the hospital.
I have cried every single day since I lost you. And I don't know when I will stop. The fact they are tossing around the word "cancer" doesn't make me cry. The fact that if it is cancer makes me hate myself for letting you even be conceived. The pain I feel inside my womb now has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the likelihood that I have another large cyst growing. I've been down this road before. Treatment for cysts means birth control pills if it isn't cancer. In other words, pills that would prevent another you from being created. And I don't know if that is a good thing or a very sad thing.
This morning started off great. But then I saw a little family and I lost it. My office door is staying closed until I know I can go through the day without crying or having to leave early.
Your daddy continues to be the support I need. He makes sure I eat, sleep and stay as happy as he can make me. He will scoop me up just to dance or for a tight hug when I can't seem to stop the tears or heartache. Sometimes keeping me happy means making silly goat impressions in public places. Luckily, he doesn't much mind being silly just to make me smile.
Your birthday should have been January 4th. Instead you left this plane of existence on May 13th.
Maybe I will get lucky and one day find your little soul again, either in the form of another pregnancy, one that goes to term, or by adopting you, or even by being the fun, crazy aunt you adore. If I never find you in this life, there is always the next.
But Kitten, I miss you. I love you and I miss you. And I will always wonder who you would have grown up to be.
Love always,
Your Mommy
