You would be about 1 year old today. I wonder if you would have been a boy or girl. Would I be brushing your hair and putting it into a bow, or would Noah be showing you how to try to fix the lawn mower?
When I found out I was pregnant, I was scared. I knew somehow that something wasn’t right. I didn’t want to believe that, after ten years of struggling, it “just happened”. No drugs, no timed intercourse, you just, “were”.
I refused to allow myself to dream about what it would be like to carry you and give birth to you and raise you into a good person. No, I wouldn’t think about that until a doctor told me it was okay to do so. I told myself I wouldn’t think about any of that. I told everyone else the same thing. But, I did think. About all of those things. And then some.
Twenty-four hours after your existence was made known to us, you were taken away. You got caught in my scarred up tube, and couldn’t wiggle yourself free. You didn’t have a chance. I cried like I had never cried before. We both cried. There was no consolation.
You were not an inconvenience. You were not unwanted. You are missed. You are loved.