Living with the loss of stillbirth and learning to live in the sunshine of our new normal.

Sunday, February 26, 2012


My baby girl. My sweet little angel. My first and always princess. I have written this birthday letter a thousand times this year. I have written it and torn it up and let the pieces float away in the wind. But now that it's time to send it, I can't remember the words. I can't remember anything but how sad I am without you. Everyday, I miss you. For five long years. For five long years. My baby is five years old, somewhere. I guess I tend to think of you living somewhere else. A long vacation from this angry life. An alternate universe, where my baby didn't die. Where you are growing up, one day at a time. But I can't place myself there with you. I can't be with you where you are. But every day, I wonder.
What I miss most are the tiny things that most people don't think about. How it would feel to hold your small hand in mine as we walk. What it would feel like to feel your breath in my hair when you hug me. The sound of your laughter as you chase your sister at the park. What would be your favorite movie? Your favorite color. Would you be a picky eater like Sophia? Would you have nightmares? Are your eyes blue? Is your hair blond? Do you look like your daddy? Like your sister? Do you have my temper? Where are you?
Today was a beautiful day. When we got to the cemetery, the birds were singing. The sky was bright blue, and Sophia sent you some balloons. Sophia had to smell every color of rose on your headstone. Pink first, then red, and finally white. When we left, she kept talking about "the flower place."
Charlotte, my heart is aching. I know that people say that all the time. A broken heart aches. But my chest is throbbing from wanting you. I lie in bed most nights and it's all I can do not to scream. You should be getting ready for Kindergarten. You should be getting put in time out for pulling your sister's hair. You should be here with us. For five years I have struggled not to be angry. Not to question. But I am still struggling. Even when the sun shines and the birds sing. I need to feel you, to hear your voice. Please help me to listen. Please help me to remember to breathe. Please, wherever you are, know me. Remember me. Let me always be your mommy. I love you, baby girl. I love you with every ounce of strength I have. Happy birthday in heaven, my love. Remember to listen for my voice, because I will never stop calling your name in the wind.

love, mommy.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Five years ago today, we were told our daughter had died.

Friday, February 24, 2012

Five years ago tonight, I felt my baby move for the last time.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Five years ago today, my baby was still alive.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

We recently bought a king size bed. Our old bed was lumpy and bumpy and squishy. As much as I never thought I would have a Family Bed, we've got one. I never in a million years thought that I would be okay with co-sleeping. Before Sophia, I lived in I Would Never World. And co sleeping was part of that world. At this moment, she is in her own room, on her own bed. By the time I go to bed, she will probably have stumbled into my room. I'm okay with it. I love waking up with Sophia snoring next to me. I love how excited she gets on the rare days that all 3 of us wake up at the same time. She giggles and squeals. "Mommy! Daddy!" and silliness ensues. I love hearing her giggle in her sleep. I love comforting her when she is having a bad dream. I love having a bed big enough that I'm not sleeping with my butt hanging off the side.

A few nights ago, I was wide awake while Mike and Sophia slept. Sophia was right next to me, snuggled up with her head on my right arm. The thought occurred to me that there was still plenty of room on the bed. The space between Sophia and Mike at that particular moment was enough that we could have fit another person. I couldn't help think that Charlotte was supposed to be lying there with us. She was supposed to be filling that space. I tried not to daydream too much about it, but I reached over and I laid my hand on the empty spot on the bed that I wished my daughter was laying in. For a few seconds, I allowed myself to picture the four of us snuggled up together. Waking up together on a weekend, giggling. Talking about our dreams, our plans for the day. The four of us.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Even after 5 years, there is not recovery. There is no "better". Days aren't as long as they were, I don't cry every. single. day. But I am not better. I will never be okay with it. I'm not alone in that. I can't be happy about that, but I can find comfort that I know people survive this.
The last few nights when I step outside of work to get some air, I feel like the moon is mesmerizing me. I glance up at it and I get dizzy, like I'm being sucked into it. It's so hard to explain, but it makes me feel a little panicky. I know that sounds crazy.