An open letter

An open letter to those who should know better:

It's amazing how quickly you forget.

Just ten weeks ago my daughter died.  My precious angel, my first born, my little girl.  I awoke one morning and felt her still.  I tried to wake my baby up.  She didn't move.  I called the doctor and rushed to the hospital, still not believing it could be true.  I remember the shock, no, the horror I experienced the moment the doctor stared too long at the screen.  He turned the monitor for me to see myself: her body floating gently.  After hours of agony waiting at home, I went in for my induction.  To the Labor and Delivery Unit, head hung low, they were waiting for me.  I remember the gush when they broke my water many hours later, I cried because this was the first time I felt that warm rush of amniotic fluid, and the circumstances were so different than what I expected. I delivered my baby's lifeless body just moments after midnight, they said she must have been waiting for New Year's Eve.  Maybe she wanted me to know that a new beginning would come at some point.  The truth is, I remember every moment of this like it happened yesterday.  I can so quickly return to that devastating, life-changing instant during the ultrasound.  "I am so sorry," my doctor said.

And what do you subject me to?  Conversations and remarks that I would hope could pause as you see me round the corner.  The thoughtless comments that you make.  The excessive celebration of other mothers' good fortune - yes, I am happy for them, but for how long do we need to post their newborn's photo in the workplace?  Must you really carry on about your easy labor and how you enjoyed maternity leave?  Why ask me about the choice of beverages for a friend's baby shower?  I am nowhere near ready for that, as you know very well.

You should know better, but since you don't, I will tell you.  Even when I am laughing, I am aching inside.  Every day is an effort to get through.  Perhaps my outward demeanor gives you the impression that I am "over it."  In fact, I will never be over it.  The pain will become duller and less sharp over time, I believe.  There will always be a void in my life, the space left by the loss of my first child, my beloved daughter.  I will survive.  But sometimes surviving is not easy.  It takes every ounce of strength that I have.  I didn't realize it would be so soon that you would lose interest in all that I have gone through.

Finally, I would like to remind you that mothers of loss are everywhere.  We are your friends, your colleagues, your relatives, your neighbors, your clients...  Do not assume that life has been kind to everyone you meet.  Have a little sensitivity and compassion.

Thank you in advance for your consideration.

Due date

Today was my official due date.  How many times did I say, "The first week of March," after being asked when I was due?  March 4th, 2011.

How different a day this turned out to be.

Not a bad day.  I had a lovely evening surrounded by four of the most important people in my life.  Certainly, it was not how I had expected to spend this day.  I thought I would deliver early (most likely), or be anxiously awaiting the onset of labor.

Instead, I am picking up the pieces of broken hopes and dreams.