6 Years Later

 Six years ago I went to bed, exhausted and excited. I was whole and happy. At peace. We were 6 weeks away from meeting our girl. I didn't know what was to come. I didn't even sense the sweeping wind of grief that was about to knock us over, shatter the world as we knew it and change us forever. 

What would I have done differently if I had known? If I had some sense of foreboding or some premonition? Would I have acted on it? Would I have written it off as anxiety or trusted my instincts? Who would I have called? What would I have demanded from them? Would I have been able to change anything?

But I didn't have any premonition. There were no clues, no cloud of despair wafting through the room. Hannah was dancing around in my belly like normal. I went to bed fully expecting the next day to be a normal day. I didn't know everything was changing. I had no idea. Not even when the doctor said she was gone. I didn't believe him. I didn't want to believe him. I didn't know how to believe him. So I didn't. I just asked for a c-section to get her out right away. "I'll show them" I thought "She fine. Babies don't just die."

But the thing is, babies do just die. Every day. In rich countries and poor countries. Babies of every religion and color. Babies who were loved and wanted. Babies who were prayed for. Babies with loving families to come home to. 

Babies do die and it's the most unfair thing imaginable. I learned this 6 years ago. A lifetime ago.

Dear Kindergarten Teacher

Dear Kindergarten Teacher,

You probably don’t know this, you probably aren’t even aware, but your class is one short this year. There should be a little girl named Hannah in your class. She would have curly brown hair, a twinkle in her eye and and infectious laugh. She’d keep you on your toes. Like her big brother, she’d be incredibly smart and kind and social. Like her little brother, she’d be incredibly funny and inquisitive and the kind of kid you just always want to be around. She’d love to read like her mom. She’d love superheros like her dad. She’d love school. And you’d love having her in class. Secretly, she’d be your favorite.

At least that’s how I imagine it would all go. We’ll never really know. Your class will be one short this year, that much is certain. Hold space for her please, in your heart. It’s the closest we can come to kindergarten.

Love,

Hannah’s Mom