She Brings Joy

This post is for a writing challenge on the phrase "I Write Because". Every Tuesday there's a new challenge. You can join HERE. 


 I write because....


I do not want to forget the weight of her in my hands. I want to close my eyes and recall every last inch of her. Her soft hair curled so tightly to her head. 

She was so beautiful. Just perfectly lovely.


I write because...

Years have gone by and very few people say her name. She could be just another accident of nature, but I am determined not to let that happen. 

Her story is valuable to the human narrative. Knowledge of every life is vital to our survival. We learn from each and every breath taken this side of heaven -- even when those breaths are of limited number. 


I write because....

Women need to be aware that continuing a pregnancy isn't just about religious beliefs and that they aren't causing their children to suffer by allowing their pregnancy to continue to its
natural conclusion. I want them to know that peace begins in the womb and bringing a baby into the world is always a good thing, no matter what the circumstances.

I write because....

It keeps me grounded. I remember how easily things change. In the twinkling of an eye, my life could change and I could lose so much of that which is so precious to me.

Writing brings clarity to my thought process. It helps me separate those thoughts into categories which affect my interactions with people in my life. It allows me to center myself on the items which are important and let go of the rest.

I write because...

This is her space and it always will be. The place where, after I clarify and organize my thoughts, I can direct my focus towards the memory of her.  

This writing is the thumbprint of the life we still share -- her silent and waiting for me, and I yearning for Paradise where I can hold her again. 

I write because....

There would be little else to do during the night, when insomnia keeps me awake. Instead of ruminating on her life and what went wrong, I spend that wide-eyed time writing little love letters to my eldest daughter. 

Letting go of the "what-ifs" is usually the most difficult part of working through a devastating circumstance. Being here helps to quiet the questions.

It's Been Four Years Now, 

It's time to let go

One day, I will be old.

Dear sweet joy-that-you-are,

I have been meditating on this thought the last few days.

Because I touched your skin, my hands are holy.

The weightiness of ushering someone into death is something that clings. It is suffocating. Like too much perfume in a small room.

But I can still feel the weight of you in my hands, and that has to count for something, doesn't it?

These average hands have been indelibly marked- you have been carved into them. My palms feel electrified at times. Like something was retained.

Something of you is left in my grasp.

My hands, which have been used for such frivolous things as washing the dishes and tapping away at the computer, held you.

For this reason they should be enshrined. I should have been wearing gloves all of this time to protect your epithilials from dropping off into the dust.

I could have been one of those crazy old ladies that children are frightened of.

Oh, these hands. They touched you. They held your hands and your feet. They reached between your lips and touched your tongue.  I just wanted to touch a part of your body that was functioning properly. These hands held you for your entire life. These hands held you in death, as you stopped.

Stopped beating, stopped breathing. Stopped living.

I often think about the parts of you that I miss. The parts that I will never see again. I don't often think of the parts of me that are beautiful because they held you. The parts that are holy and well formed for loving a baby who was not so well formed.

When I die, my gravestone should say, "These hands held love."

It's late.

I think of your small face, held in my hands. I touched your skin, and it makes my skin seem holy somehow. That close to heaven, I was- it's still unbelievable.

When I close my eyes I can still hear that heartbeat sound, and I can still feel the tension in the air and all I want, when I close my eyes, is to imagine being with you again.

I want two girls, because I am greedy. I want you holding hands in matching sister sister headbands, with your old time names and your hair in pigtails.

Her hair is red, this tiny sister of yours.

Oh, how I hoped that it would not be.

Every day, I realize that she looks just like you did- when your face was animated with life. Her mouth and chin are shaped the same, because you both look like dad. It used to hurt to see his face at a certain angle because it reminded me of what I could no longer see. Now, I spend hours gazing into her face, and it's not yours, so it's o.k.

I wish that you were here. I wish that this thing wasn't always sitting in the back of my head, ripe for emotion and ripe for tears.

I wish, at this point, to have a dream of you- I just want to be able to imagine holding you safely- just one time. I would like to hear your lispy toddler voice. You would be almost two and a half. I have missed that.

Two and a half years and I think of you every day.

I went into your box the other day.

I pulled out the small pajamas and crushed them into my face- the delicious smell of you filled me for a sharp moment in time. I remembered, then.

You are so close to my heart tonight.

Dear, sweet Bea,

I opened your box the other day. The one with the little dresses that I bought for you the day that the amnio came back negative for some deadly chromosomal disorder. They are all sweet dresses- I bought them with a clear picture of you in mind, sitting on the steps of our house blowing dandelion seeds from a tall stem.

The last time I opened them, I cried, imaging you as an almost two year old little girl dressed so sweetly in these dresses. I remembered the hope that I felt when purchasing them, and how careful I was to choose sizes that were at least 12 months, because I was sure that you were coming home, but I thought just not right away. I remember thinking that I was in the clear because of that amnio.The thought that doctors wouldn't be able to fix you didn't even cross my mind. I didn't know about all of the terrible things that prenatal testing doesn't show you.

I hung the little dresses inside of the old steamer trunk that will be Matilda's closet while she rooms in with us. I imagined doing the same for you. I wish I would have.

I felt a sense of betrayal, and jealousy over you- that this new little girl would even dream of wearing the dresses that were purchased with so much more than the dollars in my pocket- dresses that were purchased with my hope.

Trust.

I don't know if the dresses will stay there. I haven't bought this new girl any tiny girl things yet. I think I just wanted to see your things up and ready to fit on a live body. I think I just wanted to see her closet hung with soft pinks and bright flowers.

I don's know if I will be able to physically dress this new Matilda in those dresses that I bought for you. At one point, I contemplated sending them on a mission trip to a baby's hospital in Haiti. I couldn't bring myself to do it, even though everyone thought it would be such a good idea. I greedily horded them away in their box.They are yours.

Sometimes, in my bereavement, I pulled them out, and I could see you dance. You were my girl, and I couldn't imagine loving another like I loved you. I almost feel like it will be impossible to, and I grieve the loss of part of the me who so wants to be the mother of a girl. I sometimes feel that this new baby is foreign- that she is not mine, because she is not you. And I so want you.

I feel guilty, and ungrateful. I can't help it- even with a whole new life moving in me I want you.

I think that instead of mellowing my grief, this new girl magnifies it. Although I had children, I was not the (biological) mother of a girl- and now I will know some of what I missed with you. I will know about hair barrettes and tights.

I will paint her toenails.

It is not just the dresses that she will be inheriting from you, but a host of other things. She will be inheriting my dreams of mothering a daughter. She will be inheriting the joy feelings at her birth. She will be inheriting all of the things that were supposed to be yours. Bubble blowing and butterflies. Chalk on the sidewalk.

She moves around in me, and I am jealous for you- that you never moved so much inside of me- my sweet, still girl.  She has already inherited that sacred place where you were alive.

Sometimes the grief is too difficult to contain, and I try to put it off as pregnancy emotions. I wonder what I will blame it on when I am not pregnant.

Post-Partum depression?

I want to be happier. I want to envision you and this new girl- my two girls with their old-fashioned names.

Matilda and Beatrix.

I should put those lovely dresses away. They should go into the box where all of the other things that are yours are. The box where all of my innocence is stored.

I am sorry, dear girl. So sorry that I can't leave you be-  and that I can't completely hold what is here because your ghost clouds my vision.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for whatever I did to cause whatever happened.

I'm sorry that you will never see the sky as beautiful and blue as it was this past weekend, or as gray and rainy as it was today.

I'm sorry that you will never run barefoot through the green, green grass- toddling along after your big brother.

I see you wearing a sundress, holding a plastic beach bucket. It's empty, and purple with a yellow handle. You're smiling and your cheeks are flushed. You have tiny white teeth like pearls, your red hair is curly over your forehead.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I couldn't hold on for just a bit longer- long enough to give you the opportunity to have a fighting chance.

I'm sorry that you struggled. I'm sorry that in the end, we had to say, "no. take it all away."

I'm sorry that you didn't get to meet your older siblings. Two big strong brothers who would have kept you safe and seen you as a treasure. One big sister who would have shown you all of the secret things that sisters do when their mothers aren't around. One small, big brother who would have been your very best friend.

I'm sorry that I expected you to complete the picture.

I'm sorry that I don't cry every day any more. That I smile. It's obscene, I know.

I'm sorry that I tried again so soon after you were gone. I know that you welcomed that tiny baby with open arms.

I'm sorry that that doesn't make me feel better about the whole thing.

I'm sorry that your loss has eclipsed your life. That I think more upon those last hours, when I held you in my arms- than I do about the months of movement in my body.

I'm sorry that I have become cynical. I'm sorry that I just assume that everyone else's babies will die, until I have seen them breathing and pink. And then, I'm sorry that I'm angry at them for breathing and being pink.

I'm sorry that you are not here with me, making messes of things and throwing temper tantrums. I'm sorry that you could be almost a year and a half old... but you're not. I'm sorry that there were no balloons and no celebration for your birthday. No messy baby hands in a big birthday cake, no almost toothless grin with frosting on your lips.

I'm sorry that there was no birthday crown.

I'm sorry that summer is coming and I can't take you to the sea. That we can't feel the sand squish between our toes and dig up crabs with a plastic shovel. I'm sorry that you have no sun-hat. Or winter coat. Or umbrella.

I'm sorry that we couldn't be more to one another, for a longer time and in a different place.

I'm sorry that you couldn't stay in there, safe and warm forever.

I would have kept you there, you know.

To you, my lovely baby,

Yesterday was a particularly difficult day.
I wish I could have just one dream of you- just one little image of your face, animated in life. A smile would be nice- but I’m getting ahead of myself. I would just like to see you.
I read a line in a book. A woman was writing about visiting her infant daughter’s grave. She said that she knew her daughter wasn’t in the ground, wasn’t in that grave, but:
“it’s just that her knees are, and I would have loved to kiss them after she fell.”
How I miss the physical presence of you, daughter of mine.
I miss sticky fingers.
I miss gum in your hair.
I miss make-up all over your face, because you have gone through my pocket-book….
I miss it all.
I miss all of what we could have been, and all of what we would have been- all that we never will be.
I want your hair, tangled after you’ve showered. I imagine you sitting impatiently while I run a comb through it trying to get the knots out. It’s curly coarse hair, like your dad’s. Before you go to bed, I put it into little pig-tails. They’re tiny- because you are just a baby. You haven’t gotten enough hair in yet for a real braid. You would probably pull out anything I put into your hair. That’s just what babies do.
Your brother asked today, how old you would be. He is interested in knowing what you would be if you were alive. I try to explain to him, but it’s been so long since I’ve had a baby that small in the house. I imagine you pulling yourself up a bit. Not walking or really even standing. There would be a lot of plopping on your behind right now. I don’t think he would be quite so entranced by you, if you were here.
I miss you. I miss the feel of you. I miss your breath on my cheek. I miss your tiny hand wrapped around my finger.
I miss you with tubes and wires, because then you were pink and healthy looking. There was possibility and chance. There was a future where you came home in that memory.
I miss you without them, because then you were in my arms, and I knew the struggle was almost over. I knew that you were going home, in that memory.
I miss fairy princess dresses.
I went to a wedding. The bride and groom had invited children, and had asked all of the little girls to dress in princess dresses. How difficult it was to spend the evening with so many small birds running around in their tiny little ball gowns. I tried to be happy. It didn’t work.
You were missing.
It wasn’t fair.
I miss you falling asleep on dad’s chest. I miss you holding his crooked pinky finger.
I miss the second chance we had in you.
I miss your joy, and your arguing with your brothers, and your girl’s night with your sister.
I miss ballet class.
Yesterday was an awful day for missing.
I miss your messiness and thumb-sucking, drooling, teething, crying in the middle of the night, getting into everything you’re not supposed to be getting into, naughtiness. All of it.
I wish you would come back. Just for a second.
I sit with my eyes closed, and I imagine that you are right next to me. I know that it is a test of my faith- if I open my eyes, you will disappear. But if I keep them closed, you will stay right there for as long as I’d like. I sit quietly, straining to hear your tiny breath near me.
What I wouldn’t give to hear you say “mama” just one time. I wouldn’t even care that you said “dada” first. Just something.
I miss mud puddles and rain boots, now that fall is here.
I miss you, my lovely baby girl.
I miss your forehead and your knees, and everything in between.
I miss you with me, and everything we may have been together.
I could keep going on, because there are a million and one things I miss about you. So I’ll end this now.
Still missing you.