I can’t precisely pinpoint at what time the dream began. But it was there all the same. The dream of raising a daughter.
Perhaps some of it stemmed from the fact that my relationship with my own mom has been hard. Or maybe it stemmed from my own childhood of being a tomboy who did know how to wear heals, if necessary.
In 1999, when I learned I was expecting my heart leaped with thoughts that it would happen. I was magnificently blessed with a tiny brown eyed baby boy in early 2000.
2003 rolled around. Ah, I thought. This time it will happen. The 1st ultrasound came, and the technician was unsure. My amazing blue eyed son was the result.
Mind you, I was very happy. And I love my sons beyond forever.
Then, the miracle of all miracles came. January 2009, I found out I was expecting again. I was cautious to get my hopes up, and decided just to be content with the result.
Early March 2008, I was scheduled for a first ultrasound. The words came. She is a tiny one, but there she is.
She? Did the doctor really just say that? I was elated. I called my family that night to let them know I was pregnant, holding in my heart the amazing secret.
1 week later, I began feeling unwell and asked the ob doctor if they could see me. Having delivered both of my son’s premature, I knew any symptom was important.
I’ve never forgotten that day. I laid on the table as they prepared me for a 2nd ultrasound. The doctor looked concerned, but I focused more on the screen.
There she was. Tiny hands folded, as if in prayer. And I watched as her heart beat for the last time.
The next day, I would undergo a surgery to remove her from my womb.
Why, I thought. Why did this happen?
There was so much grief that filled my heart, and a sense of being completely lost overwhelmed me.
In Cosmo or other magazines, they don’t tell you how much your relationship will suffer in the loss of a child. I felt entirely abandoned.
People can say some really mean and cold things during grief.
You never held her at least. Really?
At least you lost her early. Ugh.
The grief and anger crippled me. March would appear on my calendar, and I would replay it all over again.
2 years turned into 5. And I began to learn that not only did I lose a baby that rainy March day, but I lost my ability to safely bare a child again.
A simple brick, and a few appointment cards are all remain 8 years later.
January of this year, I was sitting in yet another Sunday morning church service. And the Pastor began to preach on Ecclesiastes.
A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to Dance (Ecclesiastes 3:4, NASB)
I had wept long enough. I had mourned long enough. I was never going to be able to get back the little girl I lost. I was never going to have the dream of raising a daughter of my own.
So, I began to Dance. I began to think on how much sweeter Heaven is because of that little one. I began to think of how tremendously blessed I am to have my incredible sons. I began to think of her loss differently.
I will never forget her. I will never forget that I did carry her in my womb. I will never forget that she was and is real.