Dahlia, darling-
It's been a few weeks since I last wrote to you, and I apologize for that. I talk to you every day, every night... every chance I get. I miss you so much.
I'm not sure why, but last night was difficult. Your dad and I had just spent some special time together- you're too little to really know what that means - and afterwards when he was asleep, I just started crying and crying. I couldn't stop. He woke up after about fifteen minutes and held my hand and sleepily told me that it would be alright, and to not cry.
I don't really understand why I shouldn't cry; I know that he says it out of love, and because he wants me to be happy. I know he understand why I'm crying, and that I need to-- but I don't get why people have to tell me "don't cry". Or even, "it's okay.". It's really not. I lost my child. That's about as not okay as a person gets.
I'm scared, too, 'lia. I have an appointment coming up so that I can have consultation for birth control. I've tried so many different ones, and they've all just wound up hurting me. And I know that this time, I really don't want to go on it-- your dad wants me to. He doesn't want to 'risk' having me get pregnant for at least a year and a half. But I want to be pregnant so, so badly. I want to have the big belly to rub. I want the morning sickness and the heartburn. I want the exhaustion and the moodiness. I want to be able to have a living child. It's hard to be standing on the opposite side of something as big as this from Robby. Logically, I know that we should wait. But my logic is the only thing that agrees with that. Everything else is screaming that we should be trying to have another little one.
I think that another reason that I don't want the birth control is that it just re-enforces the fact that you're gone. That I'm not 20 weeks pregnant. That I'm not expecting a gorgeous baby. It just gives me one more reminder that my body failed me. Failed you.
This isn't a very happy post, little darling. I'm sorry.
- Loki
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Hi sweetie.
A very nice lady is making me and Dad a pair of angel wings with your name on them; we're going to put them by the picture that your Aunt Ziri drew of you and Mark. Is he taking care of you up there? I hope he is. It makes me feel better to think that my brother is holding you, and keeping you safe. I don't think that there's any reason for tears up where you are, but I'm sure that if for some reason you cry, he'll be there to soothe them away. I wish more than anything that it could be me taking care of you, but I know it can't.
I keep having to remind myself, too, that there wasn't anything that I could have done to save you. I tried my hardest to keep myself healthy, to make sure that you were healthy and to be a good mom while you were here. I keep trying so hard to tell myself that this wasn't my fault. Your Dad reminds me from time to time, too. But some part of me is full of doubt; what if this is my fault? What if I'd stayed home instead of going to AX? Gotten more rest? Eaten more veggies? Stressed less? The world, and my mind, is full of 'what-if's', little girl.
I know I'm going to see you someday, when I'm old and have gone out fighting zombies-- or died in my sleep, either one works. I know you'll be waiting for me, and I'll hold you and kiss you and tell you how much I love you. If your Dad hasn't beaten me to the finish line, we'll wait for him together and ask him what took him so long when he makes it up there.
I love you, Dahlia.
- Loki
A very nice lady is making me and Dad a pair of angel wings with your name on them; we're going to put them by the picture that your Aunt Ziri drew of you and Mark. Is he taking care of you up there? I hope he is. It makes me feel better to think that my brother is holding you, and keeping you safe. I don't think that there's any reason for tears up where you are, but I'm sure that if for some reason you cry, he'll be there to soothe them away. I wish more than anything that it could be me taking care of you, but I know it can't.
I keep having to remind myself, too, that there wasn't anything that I could have done to save you. I tried my hardest to keep myself healthy, to make sure that you were healthy and to be a good mom while you were here. I keep trying so hard to tell myself that this wasn't my fault. Your Dad reminds me from time to time, too. But some part of me is full of doubt; what if this is my fault? What if I'd stayed home instead of going to AX? Gotten more rest? Eaten more veggies? Stressed less? The world, and my mind, is full of 'what-if's', little girl.
I know I'm going to see you someday, when I'm old and have gone out fighting zombies-- or died in my sleep, either one works. I know you'll be waiting for me, and I'll hold you and kiss you and tell you how much I love you. If your Dad hasn't beaten me to the finish line, we'll wait for him together and ask him what took him so long when he makes it up there.
I love you, Dahlia.
- Loki
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Letters in Smoke
Hey there, darling.
It's been a month and nine days since your dad and I found out that we lost you. It's been a month and seven since they induced my body to recognize that you weren't there anymore. It's been the roughest month of my life.
Robby, who is your dad, has been my rock through all of this. I'm not sure if I'd still be here without him. I would've just given up by now, if he hadn't been there to share all this with me. He's such an amazing, wonderful guy-- I wish that he could've met you. I wish that I could've met you.
You left us too early for us to even hold. I thought I was about to be twelve weeks; you left at eight weeks and two days, according to the ultrasound. When we found out, we couldn't stop crying. The tears just came and came. Your dad tried to call one of our close friends to come be with us-- she's like a mother to us, and would've been like a grandma to you, Dahlia. He couldn't talk through the tears; that was one of the only times during all of this that I was able to get a handle on my emotions through a sheer force of will. I told her what happened, and she very gladly came over.
I remember laying on the couch that night, in your dad's arms, while she called my family-- I couldn't bring myself to, but I wanted to just get it over with. I wanted them to know. I don't remember, though, when our friends came and took the changing table away. It made me so upset that they did that. When I walked into the bedroom and saw that it wasn't there anymore. It felt, at the moment, like they were trying to make me forget that you'd been here in our lives. I know that they were just trying to help, but... it hurt.
I miss you so much. We don't even know if you were a boy or a girl-- we think that when you left, all the parts hadn't started to develop yet, and we know that before a baby's body "picks" its sex, it's female. So that's what we cemented in our minds for you. I don't care if you were male, female, both... I just want to hold you. I know that up in heaven, which is where I'm sure you're waiting for me and dad, that your Uncle Mark has his hands full with you, and with your unnamed sister from all those years ago. I wish that I'd given her a name. I hope that you've picked something to call her by-- maybe your uncle has. Maybe as this pain lessens, I'll be able to find a good name for her- I've always liked the name Olivia. Maybe?
Today hasn't been a good day, little darling. Yesterday was fabulous-- it marked a year that your dad and I have been married. We celebrated, we loved each other, we were silly and geeky and all the things that make us up. I feel guilty for being so happy. I know it's silly, but I do. I should've been pregnant with you. I should've been almost seventeen weeks. I'm surprised that I was able to push all the sadness away for a day. But it's all back today, in triplicate.
I gave this journal the title 'letters in smoke' because there's a custom where people will burn letters, or symbolic things and let the smoke carry their message up to heaven-- to God, to their loved ones... I know that the ancient Greeks and the early Christians used to give burnt offerings because they knew that their God (or Gods, in the case of the Greeks... I wish I could've taught you all I know about mythology) would see the smoke and know that they were sending him an offering. I can't bring myself to burn anything of yours. I haven't written any letters on paper. But when dad and I go off for our camping trip- we still want to, to remember you and put your memory to rest - we'll send something up to you.
We love you, Dahlia. I love you. I'll see you someday, angel.
- Loki
It's been a month and nine days since your dad and I found out that we lost you. It's been a month and seven since they induced my body to recognize that you weren't there anymore. It's been the roughest month of my life.
Robby, who is your dad, has been my rock through all of this. I'm not sure if I'd still be here without him. I would've just given up by now, if he hadn't been there to share all this with me. He's such an amazing, wonderful guy-- I wish that he could've met you. I wish that I could've met you.
You left us too early for us to even hold. I thought I was about to be twelve weeks; you left at eight weeks and two days, according to the ultrasound. When we found out, we couldn't stop crying. The tears just came and came. Your dad tried to call one of our close friends to come be with us-- she's like a mother to us, and would've been like a grandma to you, Dahlia. He couldn't talk through the tears; that was one of the only times during all of this that I was able to get a handle on my emotions through a sheer force of will. I told her what happened, and she very gladly came over.
I remember laying on the couch that night, in your dad's arms, while she called my family-- I couldn't bring myself to, but I wanted to just get it over with. I wanted them to know. I don't remember, though, when our friends came and took the changing table away. It made me so upset that they did that. When I walked into the bedroom and saw that it wasn't there anymore. It felt, at the moment, like they were trying to make me forget that you'd been here in our lives. I know that they were just trying to help, but... it hurt.
I miss you so much. We don't even know if you were a boy or a girl-- we think that when you left, all the parts hadn't started to develop yet, and we know that before a baby's body "picks" its sex, it's female. So that's what we cemented in our minds for you. I don't care if you were male, female, both... I just want to hold you. I know that up in heaven, which is where I'm sure you're waiting for me and dad, that your Uncle Mark has his hands full with you, and with your unnamed sister from all those years ago. I wish that I'd given her a name. I hope that you've picked something to call her by-- maybe your uncle has. Maybe as this pain lessens, I'll be able to find a good name for her- I've always liked the name Olivia. Maybe?
Today hasn't been a good day, little darling. Yesterday was fabulous-- it marked a year that your dad and I have been married. We celebrated, we loved each other, we were silly and geeky and all the things that make us up. I feel guilty for being so happy. I know it's silly, but I do. I should've been pregnant with you. I should've been almost seventeen weeks. I'm surprised that I was able to push all the sadness away for a day. But it's all back today, in triplicate.
I gave this journal the title 'letters in smoke' because there's a custom where people will burn letters, or symbolic things and let the smoke carry their message up to heaven-- to God, to their loved ones... I know that the ancient Greeks and the early Christians used to give burnt offerings because they knew that their God (or Gods, in the case of the Greeks... I wish I could've taught you all I know about mythology) would see the smoke and know that they were sending him an offering. I can't bring myself to burn anything of yours. I haven't written any letters on paper. But when dad and I go off for our camping trip- we still want to, to remember you and put your memory to rest - we'll send something up to you.
We love you, Dahlia. I love you. I'll see you someday, angel.
- Loki
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