10 Years

10 years.
10. years.

I type that with tears in my eyes. Just to imagine you at ten years old.
To imagine all the things -- the cartoons you loved, the homework you hated, the sound of your laughter.

10 years full of 'what could have been.'

It is a weird, gruesome thing -- to grieve only what you had hoped for, and nothing you ever knew.

I never knew you.

But I feel you as an ache in my bones. The kind that never goes away.
A feeling like something is missing. Something went awry. And you just have to live with it.

That last bit - living with it - that's the hardest part.

The only way I can, is to celebrate you. To share your story, over and over. To honor you.
To pour out all the love, for those I never knew.

So, for your 10th birthday, we got back on track. We just did it a little different.

We visited the hospital, like always. But your little brother helped to read the book this year.

We went to get our annual cupcakes. Your littlest brother loved that part. (He LOVES chocolate.)

But then, the new part.
Since the hospital where you were born has shut down the maternity ward, there are no babies there to give books to. And COVID restricted even visiting. So, the book project kind of went on hiatus until we could figure something out.
But, ten years -- we HAD to do something.

At first, we considered opening a free little library in our yard. But, there is one just down the block. And I thought, what if we scatter books all around our city? Leaving books that honor you all around town to spread happiness, joy, and education?

So that's what we did.

But in the middle of our adventure, the most kismet thing happened. I was giving your Dad directions to the next little library, "Then you'll turn right on Jasper."
A kind of silence happened right after I said it.
"Wait..." I said.
"Yeah..." your Dad said.

We knew we were on the right track.

Happy Birthday, my babies.

Has It Been 6 Years?

Today would be your 6th birthday.

It's taking me awhile to move past the pain of that sentence. The sorrow of a life missed out on -- where we would be having a party today. Last night, I should have been making cupcakes and wrapping gifts. And I will forever wonder which flavor you would have wanted. What gifts would have been on your lists.

It always hurts more today.

But underneath, it's that same ache you can never really numb. The grief. The price I pay for loving you.

We visited your room -- LDR 16. Sometimes we get to go in. But sometimes it's occupied and we just get as close as the hallway.

Today, as we approached -- and I could see it was unoccupied -- my throat began to tighten. Our liaison actually asked how it feels when we see the room right as it was happening. I touched my neck in reflex as I said, "It hits me right away. Like it just happened."

I suppose that could be interpreted as a 'lump in my throat,' 'choking back tears,' or 'losing my breath.' But that's not it. It feels like my body is squeezing down all those raw bellows that I've kept in since the minute we lost you.

A curdling scream that wants to come out as I crawl.. and cry.. scratching at the floors until my nails bleed.. and ripping sheets from the bed. Searching for you, even when I know you're not there.

I can never fully explain what that feels like. The primal instinct for a mother to cry out for her young.

It never leaves.

We stood in your room, mostly unchanged over the years, and remembered. Remembered that day. Remembered you. Remembered saying goodbye.

We donated dozens of books in your honor. Always the highlight of this day. Knowing how many people come together and donate because YOU inspire them. Knowing how many parents will read to their children and create memories -- because you existed.

And I imagine you there. Every time one of these books gets read in a NICU. Or pulled from the shelf in the nursery. Or set on the coffee table before bed.

I see you everywhere. It is my solace.

And, as per tradition, we read to your little brothers in the lobby. One day, they'll understand why.

To those walking by, we were just a family of four having a moment. But it will always be six.

Then off to WB Pizza for the garlic bread you both seemed to love when I was pregnant. Your brothers both ate some today too.

But.. I still wish it was cupcakes.. with you.

Four Years

There are just minutes left in the day.. what should be your 4th birthday.

It's a strange feeling each year, as if at midnight, I have to say goodbye again.

Today.. we remembered you. We celebrated you. And, as always, we missed you.

Today.. we delivered so many books, kindly donated by family, friends, and strangers, to the place where you were born. The only place you ever knew.

Though we didn't get to take your brothers to the room this year, because of flu restrictions, your father and I got to go up alone. They specifically saved the exact room where you born, so we could have a moment there.

It is hallowed ground to me.

Walking into that room -- Labor & Delivery Room 16 -- is like entering the holiest of churches.. the most peaceful of monasteries.. the most beautiful of cemeteries.

Crossing that threshold takes my breath away every time. It is the air you so powerfully and unexpectedly breathed.

I want to crumble to my knees at the weight of it. But I feel like you're keeping me standing. Like you're holding me together. It is the same way you gave me strength when I had to say goodbye to you.

But make no mistake.. I cried for you today. Without your brothers in the room to distract my attention, the memories came like snapshots. Like a Polaroid spitting out images that would start blurry and then come into focus.

My chin would quiver and I couldn't stop it.

But I didn't crumble.

I took all those Polaroids and added them to album I visit every so often -- tucked safely away in my heart.

They won't get lost there.

So, happy birthday.
Goodnight.
And goodbye for now.

Thank you, as always, for making me a mother, first.. and a better person, second.
You changed me.
You changed the world.

And a thank you to the staff at IU Methodist that allowed us to come and make our donation, even on a Saturday and in the midst of a flu restriction. We are grateful they allow us to celebrate our babies every year.

And lastly, thank you to the donors. It wouldn't be possible to touch so many families, in the legacy of our children, without your help each and every year. <3