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My daughter, born May 24, 2008.  Her nickname is Sunshine, because she is my ray of light.

Letter

Dear Jen,

I’ve been mentally composing letters to you for weeks…as I’m desperately trying to will myself to sleep, while I’m mindlessly eating granola cereal at the kitchen table, in the middle of scratching the dog’s back (god, Annie is going through something awful now with allergy season, the poor thing, you should see her, all the scratching and licking), as I’m staring out at the sky, whether it’s sunny or raining. But every time I sit down to try to put my thoughts down into an actual written letter, I falter.

I’ve decided recently to commit to how I feel about where you are, even though I don’t know if I will ever fully understand it; I’d rather, in my mind, know what I think about it all, instead of being undecided and unsure. I don’t know what happens when you die, where you go but I need to believe that you are watching out for me, that you are here with me somehow, that you can see me, that what is happening is not all random. Are you the reason for my baby? Is it a coincidence that her due date is also your 9 month death date? Will she be here on that date? I had a feeling she wouldn’t be early and I’ve been right so far, even though I am so terribly uncomfortable and I want this part to be over, I just don’t think it’s in the cards for me. I feel that whatever is happening–and I’m just talking about the baby here, not your death–is planned for a reason and I guess we’ll find out soon enough. I also can’t help but think that somehow this was all your doing and whether I’m right or wrong, I’ll never know, not until I die and then I hope that all the secrets of the world will be shown to me, including what happens when you die and where you will have been all these years I will have had to live without you.

Part of the problem is that when I sit down to write to you, all of my thoughts disappear and I forget what I was going to say. I was thinking the other day about when Ashley was a baby and a toddler, how cute and small she was, how I could pick her up and swing her around. She was so transportable. And now she is 5 1/2 and even if I wasn’t pregnant, I could not pick her up anymore, she is just too big–too tall for me and too heavy because I’m not that strong. Her dad swings her around like it’s nothing but you know how strong he is, and Kyle can too but not me, not anymore. That makes me a little sad. But she is great, you’d be so proud. I can’t believe she is starting kindergarten this coming fall–on the one year anniversary of your death, no less. Strange how all that works.

I miss talking to you on the phone. I wish I could ask you advice about raising a baby, what it’s like to have an infant in the house, what do you do with an infant, questions about nursing, diapers, just anything related to newborns. I don’t know anything about babies, and I keep wondering, why are they going to let me have this baby and take her home from the hospital? It feels like there should be an adult involved in this, but I have to remind myself that I’m the adult in this, although I certainly don’t feel like it, not in this context anyway. I’ve always looked to you for help and this would have been one time, among many, where I could really have used your knowledge. All I will ever do is wonder.

The hurt and loneliness I feel have not diminished in the least but those emotions have taken a backseat to the pregnancy which doesn’t seem fair. I know that I’ll never fully get the chance to mourn you. Maybe that was part of it all.

My fingers and toes, my legs and feet are constantly swollen and I haven’t been able to wear my wedding rings in 2 months. I remember the day I finally took them off for good. I struggled for a good 5 minutes before I had to use warm soapy water and while I was tugging, I had a flashback to the hospital. The doctor told us to remove your wedding rings because most likely you were going to swell and they did not want to have to cut off your rings. Your husband slipped your hand into his and slowly slid the rings off your finger and into his pocket. That was another dagger in my heart. Now the rings sit in a safe deposit box, waiting for a time when your daughter is old enough to have them.

I love you and miss you every day.

Love, me.

Thursday

All out of sorts today.  Fucking hormones, uncomfortable everything,  swollen everything too,  intense sadness, wishing my sister was here.  Add to that an exhaustion so extreme I can barely get up off the couch and three dogs who are all up in my shit–which I love, their attention gets me through the day but sometimes I need to lie still and they want to go out and play and I just CAN’T!  But then I think that the baby will be like that, except I can’t just open the door and let the baby outside to play without me and that sends me into tears.

Everything is about to change and I don’t know what will happen and I don’t have any frame of reference and I don’t know what to expect and I’m not scared, just lonely.

Letter

Dear baby,

Count this as my first letter to you; I’m sure there will be many more to come.

All these months have turned into mere weeks and it’s almost time.  I wonder what it’s going to be like to see you and hold you, hear you scream or watch you sleep and know you will depend on me for everything.  And your dad too.  Can I just tell you now how strange it is for me to call him your dad?  I know he’s going to be a wonderful father, I just haven’t gotten used to the labels that are given to people when they have a child.  I don’t think I’ll be able to comprehend that I’m a mom for a long while.  The whole thing still seems pretty surreal to me, even when I’m lying on the couch and you are moving around, a constant reminder.

People ask me if I’m excited and I feel like sometimes I’ve got a blank look in my eye as I halfheartedly shrug.  I am excited but also unsure and still very sad over losing my sister, your aunt, only 9 months ago.  It tears at my heart every day but most people don’t know about the tragedy my family  has suffered, so to them I seem callous and uncaring, but I assure you that’s not the case.  It’s just been a long 9 months, with the grieving and you growing, an odd conflict of emotions and I am nowhere near working them out but I guess I won’t have to since you will be born soon and this phase will be over and we’ll move on to the next one.

I don’t know how to explain to you that I think you are a gift from my sister because I’m not 100% sure if I believe it or not–I feel it in my heart but I’m not sure I can wrap my mind around it.  Whatever the case, I know that she’s a huge part of who you are, just as she will always be a part of who I am, and just because you will never get the chance to meet her does not mean that you won’t know who she is.  She was wonderful.  I’ll never be able to sing her praise enough.

Love, me.