Today is our Should Have Been Day.
The day that we should be celebrating.
The day we will never get to celebrate.
April 8, 2011 should have been the birthday of our first child.
We only made it 14 weeks. Only, only, only.
Those were the best 14 weeks of my life. The 14 weeks that I felt happiest. Most hopeful. Most proud. Most strong, capable, right. The only time I ever felt that way, that secret special way that only being pregnant can make you feel.
We were so filled with excitement and anticipation and love. We were parents and it was beautiful.
Then it stopped. Everything stopped.
No heartbeat. No heartbeat. No. Heartbeat.
The worst two words. October 1, 2010.
Then screams and tears and broken. Broken. Broken. Broken.
Nothing will ever be the same. Nothing. Not ever.
We made it through the dark times. We survived. But we are different. We are changed.
Years keep passing. Those two dates come and go every year. Friends build their lives and their families. Their children grow. Some feel loss and heartache, too, and we mourn with them. We pray and hope and get discouraged. I cry and rage and get caught in that evil loop of why and what if. Others get tired of my grief. I feel those get over its and not agains. I feel the distance and the endings and the breaking and it hurts almost as much as the loss. It is too much for me. Too much for us. I know it is too much for them. Our grief is big and dark and it hurts.
I dream about her. Sometimes she is a baby. Sometimes she is running and sassing. Throwing fits and laughing. She’s always beautiful. We are always hopelessly in love. I don’t ever want to wake up from those dreams.
We pray, we hope, we try to keep our faith pure and strong, that someday we will be a family of three.
Happy Should Have Been Day, Baby Hope. We love you.