It's the day before Mother's Day, and this post comes with much hemming and hawing over whether or not I was going to have the guts to write about something painful the day before something so happy. But because those are the kind of things that coil around your brain, and like a python, squeeze it until something comes out or it stops twitching. For many, many years, Mother's Day was purely a painful day for me. It was a reminder that my own "mother" had treated me like a punching bag, and that (years later) I'd lost a glowing little life that had started in my belly. That little life is the reason I write this.
Dear Dahlia Rose,
It's the evening before Mother's Day, and I'm sitting here on the couch with your uncle and your daddy, watching them play video games while your little brother munches on things in his highchair. I miss you. I sometimes feel incredibly, deeply, guilty that I still miss you so fiercely when I have your brother here to hold- but I don't think you'd want me to feel guilty. I think you'd want me to remember that grief isn't something that mysteriously passes. That it isn't something that's the same for each and every person- what might be life-altering to someone may be a shorter grieving process, or simply a different one to another. I don't think you'd want me to feel sad this year and I do know that I've let you down in that. I'm always going to be a little bit sad. This year though, darling, it doesn't feel like my heart is trying to break through my ribs with how much it hurts. It's more of a sad thought that comes up when a song plays on the radio, or something reminds me of the time we were so lucky to get to have together.
I have the same things I think about, though. How you and your brother would be playing, if you would've gotten along. What color would your hair have been? Your eyes? Would you have had the jet black hair I was born with? Or would you've been blonde, like your brother? I think that if I stopped myself from thinking about these things, it would do you a disservice, and it would feel like shoving you to the back of my mind (or out of it) simply to feel a little bit less. And sweetie, I'll take every single emotion that the world can throw at me regarding you, because it means that I'm getting to experience something with you. Not physically with, of course, but in spirit. Love and pining go together. You don't know how much you love someone until you look next to you and they aren't there anymore.
Speaking of that-- are you keeping your Opa on his toes? I'm certain that you are. I bet that wherever it is that you are, you're as much of a little troublemaker as your brother is. He's a good boy, but I know that you and Uncle Mark visit him. I've woken up in the early hours and in that haze between not being asleep, but not being awake either, I've seen you. I've felt you. I know what your Uncle Mark feels like- he's my twin. It would be a sorry thing if I didn't know. And as strongly as I know that, I know that you've visited your little brother. I hope that you're the one he talks to when he's playing by himself, and sharing his toys with the air. It's been a rough year for us all here, baby. There's been a lot of stress, and a lot of hurt. There's been a lot of love, though, too. You know me-- I'll take that gallon of stress for that bit of love, any day.
Did you see the roses that bloomed outside this year? I was talking to the gardener, and I asked why there was only one red rose bush in a group of whites and pinks, and he said "Oh, it wasn't planned that way, it just happened." and I knew that you were saying hello to me in those blooms. You weren't planned, and your leaving wasn't either-- but as long as you were ours, we did our best to help you bloom. There have been butterflies all over this year as well, something that I've always assocaited with you. The monarchs follow me (in all fairness, it may because they think that my pink hair means I'm a flower), and it's nice. Froggy and I go to the playground and sometimes, I'll just sit and watch the butterflies flitting from flower to flower. Every time we're there, one will come close enough that if I didn't know it would hurt them very badly, I could reach out and touch them. Your brother chased one the last time we were there, giggling hysterically and reaching out to it with his hands, a huge smile on his face. Were you playing with him, dear?
Tomorrow will be hard. I know that it won't be as hard as the first one after we lost you. It won't be as hard as the year after that, or the year after that. Each year brings a new way for me to cope with your loss. I think that maybe tomorrow, I'll take your little brotherface for a long walk, and we'll count the butterflies and roses that we see. I'll draw something tonight, like I always do, and in a few months, we'll be baking cupcakes for your angel day. I've met people over the years who see that I'm still celebrating you, and trying to remember you, instead of trying to push the whole thing out of my mind and never speak of the matter again and they tell me that they don't think I'm doing the right thing. They tell me to just "get over it already" or that "no other women carry on like this. They just move on with their lives.". But that isn't true, little love, every woman will grieve the loss of a pregnancy or of a child differently. They'll all move forward at their own pace, and in a way that is best for them. Some might want to forget. Others might want to do something for mothers and fathers who've lost a little one. Still others yet, might sing or dance or draw or bake or cry. They might sleep the day away. They might write letters to their children. They might sing and lift their voices up in prayer. Every woman will be different.
I've written you many letters since we lost you. Some of them, I've posted in places that are public, but the majority of them I've kept to myself. This letter was going to be one of those-- and then I realized that the only reason that I wasn't posting it was because I was afraid of negative comments or people telling me that I was being too depressing, too maudlin, that this wasn't something to talk about right before Mother's Day and ESPECIALLY not as the most recent post during the launch of this blog. But then I thought, "Why? What's the point of a blog, the point of putting your innermost thoughts in a public forum where the whole world can read if they'd like, if you censor yourself? If you want to change something, change the way that all human beings grieving are treated when talking about their losses, then you can't be afraid to put something taboo front and center.".
Baby girl, you've given me strength. You started my dream of being a parent. Your loss gave me such an incredible feeling of hopefulness, of fear, of wonder and of how incredibly lucky I was when your brother was on the way. I think it's only fair that this letter to you- the tiny thing that started me on the path of being a parent, a seahorse and a mother- is the first thing that people see when they come to this blog during its launch. I love you so much, and hope that you know that. Give Uncle Mark, Opa and Grampa Cal a big hug and kiss for me-- I'll see you when I'm starstuff, baby.
Love,
Mama
