Midnight.
As soon as the clock clicks onto Valentine's Day, I feel the gloom starting to creep forward, climbing out of the shadows where I try to keep it locked for the majority of the year. The little whispers that start off as just a feeling that isn't right, then that take form. They say "Don't you remember what this day is? What this day way supposed to be?"
"Don't you remember what you were supposed to have?"
And in those moments, I have a choice put to me. I can crumble, and choose to curl up in the grief and sadness that today holds for me. Or I could celebrate the love we have now, and the memory of a too-brief visit with a part of my soul.
Dahlia, today is your birthday. We lost you three years ago, this year. Valentine's Day was your due-date, and when the doctor told us, we were elated! It would make the day, that I've always loved so much, even more special. To get the best Valentine ever on that day? We were on board with that.
I was excited from the moment that I saw the little lines on the test saying that I was pregnant. I was over the moon. I was also terrified-- what would we do for finances? How would I raise a child when we were only renting a room in a house with others? We figured things out, and within a month, we'd moved to an apartment of our own. It was magical for those few weeks. I planned, your daddy unpacked, we talked about the future, the things that we wanted for you, our plans to be silly, our plans to be serious. I started saving so that I'd be able to get you a crib (your brother still doesn't have a crib. I hate to say I've cried over that, because it sounds materialistic and stupid, but I have. I've always had a dream of laying my babies down to sleep in a beautiful crib.), we got a few outfits from friends... we still have them. I haven't been able to give them away. I put one outfit on your brother. Another, I tried to roll up and send to a friend that just had a baby a few weeks ago... I couldn't do it. I'm sorry, Heather. It was something I really, really wanted to send to you, but I wasn't ready. I don't think that I'm ready yet, either. Grief is a slow, sad monster, Dahlia.
One afternoon in august, when I was supposed to be 12 weeks along, I was talking to your Oma and something suddenly didn't feel right. I suddenly didn't feel you, this tiny spot of brightness that had been letting me know of her presence since before I was two weeks along. You knew, maybe, that you wouldn't have a long time with us. Maybe that's why you told us early. I went to check to see what was going on, and discovered I was bleeding. I called your daddy-- he ran straight home from work, and broke some speed limits getting to the hospital. I remember getting the news. Your daddy was trying his best to reassure me that everything was okay, because a whole bunch of women have bleeding during the first trimester. The doctor came in, right as I was getting my hopes back up, so very carefully. If the look on her face hadn't said it all, then when she sat, it did. She handled it poorly--- "Your ultrasound came back with no heartbeat, the fetus is dead. It last had a heartbeat at 8 weeks 2 days.".
The last ultrasound I have of you alive is from 8 weeks on the dot. Who knew that I'd only have you here for two days longer?
The next few days were hell. The doctor that I went to gave me the option of having a D and C, which I would have to wait a week for, or this medication that would, the doctor said, "effectively stimulate the uterus to expel the fetal tissue.". Not knowing that that meant "Induce labor", I agreed to that one. I didn't think that I could live through a week of carrying around a life that I knew had left. They gave me the first dose of the medication to take at home. I followed the directions, and without knowing it, overdosed the amount. I followed the instructions to a T, triple checking it. They said "take a vicodin and lie down, it won't feel worse than menstrual cramps".
They lied, darling. It was hell. It was every ounce of emotional pain made physical. My body went in to hard labor, pushing you to the world hard and fast. There was nothing to hold. They made me repeat the dose the next day; I don't remember much of what happened then. I remember being told at one point that I could request an epidural if only I were in "actual labor". The nurse was very upset that they couldn't offer me anything other than diloted to help with the pain. I ended up hospitalized and bleeding very badly for several days. I left the hospital with a broken heart.
Going home from the hospital with an empty belly, and empty arms was the most heartbreaking, hardest thing that I've ever had to do. I wanted to run back, screaming, "just let me stay here, let me stay where I lost her. Don't send me away, I want my baby!"
I grieved for over a year, Dahlia. But now... I'm seeing the future, past the blinding grief. I'm learning to celebrate the life that you had, however short it was. That I was given a special gift- noone else on this earth knows you like I do. No matter what anyone tells me. I know I felt you flutter when you left. I'd thought I'd felt you move, but hadn't said anything-- it couldn't be, it's too soon for that!-- but I know that it was you saying goodbye, stay strong in the only way you could. This year, sweetheart, you'd be turning 3 years old! You'd be such a big girl, swinging around in dresses and marveling over your little brother. You'd be learning around the world, and crawling into our bed at night to be protected from the monster under/in/near the bed.
I love you, little angel. Yours was a short life, but it blazed brightly for me. Knowing you for that time burned me.... but those are scars I'm proud to wear. Fly to us tonight and give your brother and I visit to let us know you're here. Say hello to my brother up there, Uncle Mark. I love you, sweetheart. Your brother is the part of my heart and soul that I carry around outside me. You're the part of my heart and soul that I keep tucked inside, in the most treasured part of my heart.
I love you, Dahlia Rose.
- Mommy
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