Connections

Dear Analin,

The "A" stocking has brought you to your second brother's attention this year. He's almost 5 and though we always talk about you, he hasn't been able to comprehend you yet. This year, he has. He asked who in our family starts with an A. He asked to see your books. He told me you are the best girl he ever missed. That he misses you so very much.

I'll admit I was worried about teaching you to him and to your little brother and if they could connect. This year, I'm not so worried. You are a part of our lives, every day, and this is where it shows, when a big brother who was too little to remember connects with his little sister through the memories we've kept and the words we share. It's powerful. You're powerful.

Thank you, my beautiful girl.

I love you.

Mommy.

Full Disclosure

Dear Analin,

I haven't written in a long time because I am currently in denial. I fully recognize it won't change anything, but right now, it's what I need. Not having a girl was harder than I thought, though nothing could replace Benjamin. Nothing can replace you. As hard as it is for me to be pregnant, having a girl to wear the clothes in that big box doesn't look promising. Having another girl won't change what's wrong, anyway. It's a hard place to be right now.

I love you each and every day.

Mommy.

Happy Birthday.

Dear Analin,

happy birthday beautiful girl. I think about you every day and I miss you more than you can know.

If you had been here, I would have gotten you one of those big silly pink electric cars - either as a Jeep or Corvette. I wonder if you would have liked Frozen or Barbie better - maybe Brave - actually I think definitely Brave.

I love you so much. I always will.

Daddy.

When you have a daughter in Heaven...

Dear Analin,

The day after you died, I was talking to a good friend. I told her that I didn't want this. I didn't want to be a parent who had lost a child.

At the time, I didn't know what specifically I was talking about. I didn't know what exactly I meant. I knew that this hurt was too deep to ever go away. But I didn't understand just how profoundly losing you was going to change me.

I didn't realize that I would, two and a half years later, still feel a pang of pain and jealousy when friends would announce pregnancies; that talk of baby girls would still cut deeply into my heart; that I would still look for baby clothes for you, because it could be a bad dream, right?

Your father is a happy person. I care deeply for other people and their happiness. So it hurts so much that I feel sadness when people tell me about their happiness. A year after we lost you, it got to the point where I had to seek professional help. One night, I broke down in front of your mommy. How could I react to happy baby announcements with such sadness, such anger?  People who did that were broken, I thought.

That night was a turning point for me. Things got better - as things tend to do. I no longer think that I'm broken. Being broken would mean that I could and needed to be fixed. And that's not the case. But I do need to admit to myself that I have changed.

I still hate it when people ask me how many children I have. A seemingly simple question, I stumble every time. If I answer 3, I feel guilty because I have 4. If I answer 4, I feel like I have to qualify the answer with 'but one died'. Why is it so much harder for me to share you with people than it is for me to share your brothers? I hate it and you don't deserve that.

It's not meant to be like this. When I said to my friend that I didn't want this, this is what I meant. Feeling conflicted, feeling guilty for feeling hurt.

But I take comfort from opposites. The pain I feel makes me love more fiercely. My guilt makes me work harder at being a better friend, husband and father.

And in the end, you have play to the cards you've been dealt.  It doesn't matter whether I wanted this or not. It happened and we deal with it. We take what lessons and what strength we can find. And we love more, laugh more, cry more and live more.

I love you so much and I miss you every day. At least there I know I'm not conflicted and that's a thought that brings me smiles.

Forever and ever,

Daddy.

Tired

Dear Analin,

I'm sorry I haven't written much. Life right now is more than busy, it's draining. Draining in a good way - we are working hard toward some rewarding goals - but it's taking its toll. I'm so tired and being tired has lead to not thinking about you as much as I'd like. Being tired, I don't have the energy for it. I don't have the energy to think back and grieve, then climb my way out of it to a happier place.

That isn't to say I don't think of you at all. Just last month I had a conversation with one of those wonderful strangers you just bond with about you and your loss. I even told her the hardest parts about the drive home and the morning after. I'd taken care of myself a bit better that day, with a trip to the spa, so the energy had been there. In fact, I even reached that cathartic point of being proud of making it through the grief and sharing the story of my beautiful daughter.

Right now, though, I shy away from thoughts of you. If I didn't, I'm not sure I'd be able to get through it. There's nothing wrong with taking a day to cry and I have done that in the past. The trouble comes from making the pain more than the memory part of my life, and I struggle with that most when I'm tired.

I have suffered from and fought through Depression before and I'm absolutely certain that weighs heavily on my decisions on how to direct my grief. So, I'm employing a lot of avoidance these days. I'm sad about it. I miss you in my thoughts and conversations. The risk, though, is too high when sadness threatens larger than I think I can handle, so high it would affect the rest of our family.

To be clear, it isn't thinking of you I'm afraid of, it's in the sadness crawling out of my soul and settling into my bones. There's a difference to it that is dangerous for me.

I look forward to the day this is all done and I can put my feet up and cry until I smile again. You are worth every tear and every moment. Every day I wish I could be thinking of you in a different way, in the way of my beautiful, drive-me-crazy, two year old toddler. I want to type 'maybe one day,' but, of course, that would be a lie.

I miss you beyond what you could ever know.

Love, Mommy.

Your Box

Dear Analin,

There's been a debate about what to do with your things. I still have them, two years later. I even dug out some of the neutral things and the toys to use for Benjamin, but there are still so many frills and ruffles and owls and pink in a box we keep in the attic, things unique to you.

At first, I hoped we would use it for a little sister. Then I thought we might donate it to someone in need, or a women's shelter. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to make the arrangements. I kept thinking one day I would be able to do it. I'm not sure there's ever a 'ready' for something like that. They aren't just clothes, they are possibilities lost, and I'm not willing to let them go.

Randomly I ask your daddy what he thinks. Neither of us ever had an answer that satisfied us. Until this weekend.

There's no ready. I am not willing to let go of the few things I had for you. That's all there is to it.

We will not be getting rid of your box. It goes against my usual opinion of not holding on to things we don't use or need, but I do need that box. It's a comfort item, something I can control in this out of control situation. Yet, it won't just sit there forever, or so we hope.

We hope, one day, you will have a beautiful niece who will look amazing in frills and ruffles and owls and pink. For your niece, we'll keep these things as I'm not keeping the same things from your brothers. All I have from them is a custom made tux onsie only Joshua ever had the chance to wear for daddy and my wedding. But I have your brothers. There's the difference.

Things shouldn't matter, but these do and instead of try to find a work-around, I'm going to embrace my attachment to them this time. And I'll cry bittersweet tears of happiness when I gift your box to one of your brothers because even though you never got to wear these things, a beautiful girl I love will get to.

Forever yours,

Mommy.

Rainbow baby

Dear Analin,

Rainbow babies are hard.

We thought having a baby after your loss would help us heal. He did.

We knew being pregnant would be hard. It was one of the hardest things we'd ever done.

When he was born, I couldn't think about you. When he was born, it had to be about him, because if you were part of it, I don't think I could have taken care of him as well as I did.

Having your little brother helped us heal in knowing, physically, we are sound. Not one thing went wrong with his pregnancy despite the doctor's almost desperate search. There were tests and ultrasounds and NSTs galore and our doctor admitted the changes he'd been expecting hadn't come.

Your baby brother was induced at 38 weeks and 1 day. He's pretty perfect, though he had some trouble breathing and eating at the same time at first. I didn't want to stop holding him. I barely shared him with your dad or older brothers. He was mine. My rainbow baby.

My distraction.

It is hard, terrifying, and a massive highlight of how unfair stillborn loss is when you have a live baby. He was perfect. So were you. His pregnancy was normal. So was yours.

I am so very, incredibly grateful to have brought him home. I was up and walking around the delivery room with a smile. I had no problems getting him to nurse or letting him sleep. I was showered, dressed, and chatting away like there was no after-birth pain at all. Someone mentioned how good I looked, how happy we were.

Of course we were. We got to take home a baby. Do you understand? We got to TAKE HIM HOME.

That's a very specific contrast to your birth.

He was about 3 weeks old before I consciously thought about you again. I cried for a day. I held him and rocked him and screamed within my mind because I should have had this with you. You should be toddling around demanding my attention, demanding to hold the baby. Actions from a baby who never got to come home.

Rainbow babies are hard. They are a bittersweet coming that simultaneously heals and rips open wounds that may not have been as healed as we thought in the first place.

I wouldn't trade him for the world. I just wish his waking family was a little bigger.

Always missing you,

Mommy.