Broken

A year ago tonight, May 31st, 2011, my water broke. That is to say, I broke. My babies’ safety and security gushed out of me as fear and panic rushed in. Rudyard’s sac emptied as I sat on our couch, eating a slice of homemade pizza. As I ran through the house screaming, searching my wallet for my doctor’s number. As I walked, knees-pressed through the hospital parking lot, desperate to get inside.

My heart, my hope, the promise of protection I offered my boys, motherhood…it all just broke down and flooded out of me and into the pool of amniotic fluid collected at my feet.

This week has been especially hard as Jeremy and I relive those moments. Last year there was a shred of hope, prayers pouring in, the certainty a miracle was coming. This year the days loom before us, heavy. The miracle didn’t come. Our boys are gone. The shock and fog have faded enough to expose us- raw, pained, broken.

We saw a documentary recently about the widows of the NYC firefighters that died on 9/11. In it a woman shares about a trip she took to Rwanda out of a desire to connect with women there, widowed after genocide ripped through their country. These women had not only lost their husbands, but their children were taken or killed as well. What touched Jeremy and I so deeply was watching the Rwandan women share how they deal with grief. They periodically reenact their trauma. The women take turns hiding in the grass, as they did after running for their lives. Other women come and find them and lead them to safety. The grieving women collapse as they’re being lead. Overcome with grief they curl up on the ground and sob, unable to believe they will make it through such devastation. The other widows gather around them and pour water on their heads, helping them up, holding them, assuring them they are not alone. Their grief is honest- big and dramatic. It holds space in their lives and is totally culturally acceptable, expected even.

I’ve thought a lot about those women this week, as memories crash around my head. I’ve wondered what it might look like to reenact the trauma of last year. Should I scream and run around my house again? Should Jer run those same red lights to get us to that hospital parking lot? Collapsing and curling up on the ground seem like the most natural things to do right now. Sobbing is a given. I know I even have friends who would help me up off the ground and hold me, no matter how uncomfortable such unrestrained grief may make them. I have already learned I am not alone.

I am broken but so are you. So are we all. Tonight, I’m picturing you reading this and I’m there with you, holding you up, telling you you’ll be okay, that you’re not alone. You’ve been beaten and bruised. Life hasn’t been kind to you but you will continue. You will still be standing tomorrow. I know because you told me so.

It’s now past midnight, now 366 days since my water broke. I’ve survived another day and so have you. *group hug*

celebrating our boys

Candle lit for boys' estimated due date, 10/6/11.

Flowers from Jer for the boys' estimated due date.

Happy Halloween RDO!

Little stockings, hung on the mantle with care.

Handsome boys: Rudyard, Desmond, and Oscar.

These Molly Bears arrived just in time for Christmas, each one unique to each boy, weighing what he weighed at birth.

Valentine's Day roses for the boys. Red for Rudyard, Orange for Desmond, Purple for Oscar.

 

Sunflowers kept weekly in memory of our boys since the day of their memorial last June.

lullaby of the heart

One year ago today I peed on a stick and then in a shocked state, typed this on my iPhone notepad:

 

At 6:58 AM on Fri Jan 28th I took a pregnancy test and it was positive. I’m pregnant.

 

And took this photo (and many others):

After Jer got home from his morning run and we’d had a few minutes to take it all in, I insisted we take a picture of ourselves too. So, we lay in bed, giggling and shaking and trying to take a clear photo but that proved impossible. Here’s the best one:

 

I miss you boys. Every breath, every second, they’re yours. xoxoxo

Signs

{I wrote this piece about a month and a half ago for a writers group I’m in at my church. Been meaning to share it here for awhile now. Recently I’ve noticed some of my child loss friends have posted similar themes on their blogs and it reminded me how connected we are and how I really should share this.}

My mail today consisted of three death certificates, one for each of my sons, and an American Baby magazine, of which I am not a subscriber.

One picture uploaded to twitter later, and I got the support I needed. “I’m sorry” and “I hate your mail today” and my particular favorite, “the USPS has a really f*cked up sense of humor.” Comments from women who have been there, or from those who haven’t because conceiving is so difficult in the first place, creating their own ache and sense of loss. That’s my community now, the Baby Loss Moms community. The Dead Baby Club.

Going out into the world as a member of this club is an entirely surreal experience. At times I crave anonymity- I just stroll through Whole Foods like a normal person. No one there knows I’m broken. That is until I have to ask the woman in the vitamin section the best iron supplement to take. She asks if I know why I’m deficient. “I experienced a pregnancy loss in June,” I tell her (but wait, no, there’s more to it). “That’ll do it!” she says as she picks up a bottle and hands it to me. She says she’s sorry for my loss, that she’s been there, suffered through miscarriages. The window opens, bringing relief. “I gave birth to triplets. They died the day they were born.” (There it is, but not really.) The look on her face- a mix of shock, confusion, pity, mouth agape- causes instant regret. I close the window and walk away, exposed.

This new world is strange and complex, and at times impossible to navigate. As much as I want to slip away, unnoticed, I also wish I could wear a sign around my neck.

My babies died 4 months ago. No, I’m not over it.

But there are layers of signs, really. Stating the reality of my life, that I’m a mother with no one to parent, is just surface information- what people are whispering to each other anyway (she’s the one who lost her triplets). There is some risk in telling it, but not nearly as much as telling you what that really means, what that really does to a person, to me.

I get brownie points for saying it without breaking down (she’s so strong), as people scan my face, impatient with my words, waiting to hear a tidy “but you know, all things happen for a reason” or “God is still good.” I don’t believe the former and am unable to think about the latter. Awkward silence hangs at the end of my words. Grasping, “It is what it is.” Not quite as satisfying for the masses, but there’s no way to slip a bow around this one.

My life experiences have given me many invisible signs, hanging there, heavy, often for far less sympathetic reasons. I’ve thought a lot about the signs others are wearing since this happened. I think about them mostly at church, the place that’s hardest to go at the moment (insert sign here). I look around and wonder, “Who else here is shattered into a million pieces? Where are my people?”

I think about what the signs of our congregation might say:

 

My wife left me.

 

My husband and I argued the whole way here.

 

I’m scared to eat.

 

I think my child might be taking drugs.

 

I lost my job.

 

I was (am) abused.

 

And what that really means:

 

I don’t deserve love.

 

I’m scared I married the wrong person.

 

I hate myself.

 

I’m a bad parent.

 

I feel inadequate.

 

It’s all my fault.

 

I’m a member of this community too, the Church. Why is it so much harder to reveal my signs here? To speak honestly with Christians when we’re indwelled with Truth?

There is comfort and cover in the façade of perfection.

Literal signs would be helpful, but unnecessary. If we can be trusted with another’s heart, it will open. If we can leave judgment to God and embrace our individual fragility, the Body will be strong. Are we brave enough to look, see, reveal?

Me:

Rudyard, Desmond, and Oscar are gone.

It takes everything in me to get out of bed in the morning.

I’m terrified this will happen again.

I’m simultaneously amazed and disgusted that I continue to live.

Today:

My sons’ death certificates arrived in the mail and I took a picture of them as if they were their first report cards. It’s what I have.

 

Letters Home

Jer and I sometimes attend a grief group with other parents who’ve lost their babies. We haven’t gone in a little while because we weren’t really finding the format extremely helpful. The last time we went there was a planned activity, which was a first since we’d been going. The leader had balloons in pink and blue for us to attach notes to and send off into the heavens for our little ones.

We decided not to release our 3 blue balloons because honestly we can’t get past the thought of them caught in a sea turtle’s throat, but I did write to the boys that night and Jer drew a picture of them. It felt good to “talk” to them, hard too. I pretty much sobbed the whole time I wrote to them. It’s been hard for me to talk to them since they passed away. I try sometimes, I want to, but it’s so painful. The void of the physical world between us seems so vast, so endless. In some ways I believe as Jeremy does that they’re here with us, but I don’t feel them like I thought I would. I think of myself as someone who’s “in tune” with her spiritual side and the supernatural. I pay close attention and listen to the intricacies of my body and the life around me. I base a lot on feeling and my sixth sense. I believe I’m kind of psychic, which Jeremy indulges with a wink and a smile. I thought all of these things combined would be enough to bridge the gap of time and space, of life and death, to where I would feel, really feel my boys here with me. But it’s not enough. I don’t feel them. Admitting that is so hard for me. It’s devastating that I don’t feel them, don’t see them, don’t dream about them other than frantic dreams replaying what happened, trying to make sense of it, trying to change it and bring them back. I don’t pray a lot but when I do I pray to God to let me see my boys, as they are now. I want to communicate with them in my dreams. I believe this is possible but it hasn’t happened yet.

Something I used to be embarrassed to admit or at least felt like I should be embarrassed to admit is that Charmed is my favorite TV show. There are 3 sister witches and after one of the sisters dies, the other two try to contact her. Instead of getting her, their grandmother and mother who have passed away appear in spirit form. The sisters are confused and upset, they want to see their sister. If they can see their other loved ones who have passed on, why not their sister Prue? Their grandmother tells them simply, “It’s too soon.” She explains that if the sisters were to see their fallen sister now it would be too confusing for all of them, they wouldn’t be able to let go and accept what’s happened.

Though most would be skeptical that great life lessons are coming from Charmed, I’ve thought a lot about that recently. Is it too soon? Is that why I can’t feel or see our boys because God knows if I did I’d never be able to let them go and move forward? Maybe.  Although I have to think He knows that’s not really possible. I have to work at letting go of the idea of raising them, having them here physically with me, yes. I have to accept what’s happened, though some days that seems impossible. But I have no plans of letting go of them and I’m very patient. I can wait it out. I will wait eagerly and expectantly to see my boys again, even if that means waiting a lifetime until I’ve breathed my last breath.

Here are the “Letters Home” to our boys, and Jeremy’s beautiful drawing of them. In the letters I reference this story that Jeremy wrote. If you haven’t read it, you should. It’s amazing and inspiring and brave.

Rudyard,

I thought a lot about you today. I looked at your pictures and thought that you were a pretty handsome guy too. It’s hard without you, little man. I miss you so much and I feel so sorry about what you went through. I love you Rudyard.    Love, Mama

---

Desmond,

Your daddy wrote a short story inspired by you and your brothers. In it he mentioned a woman named Molly. I asked him if he was thinking about your song when he wrote it because that’s what I thought of. In the song Desmond marries a woman named Molly and has children with her. I think of the kind of husband and father you would have been. It makes me sad but proud too. You would have been good at it. I bet you would have been the kind of guy to bring your wife flowers for no reason at all, just because you love her. I miss you Desmond. Every day. I love you sweet boy.  Love, Mama

---

Oscar,

I read a story recently that your daddy wrote. In it he mentioned a reality where we got to keep you, not your brothers unfortunately, but you. I wish with everything in me that I lived in that reality with you. I love you so much my little one and I miss you more and more each day. I hope you’re okay.   Love, Mama

---

Beautiful, precious boys. Your mama and daddy love you so and miss you with every breath. We’ll see you soon sons. xoxo

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.”  Romans 8:18-25

Tofu Fajitas

Today’s Meatless Monday recipe is from my wonderful friend and client Sigrin. This tasty meal was just what we needed and made enough to last for days. Thanks Sigrin! Enjoy everyone!

Tofu Fajitas

Ingredients:

• One package firm or extra firm tofu
• 2-3 Assorted peppers- green, red, yellow, and/or orange, sliced
• 1 onion, sliced
• 1 packet fajita seasoning
• water

 

Preparation:

Slice tofu into 1/2″ rectangles and grill on the BBQ. This firms up the tofu and gives it an authentic grill flavor.
Pan saute peppers and onions until tender. Mix fajita seasoning with a little water and add to the peppers and onions. Stir until well coated.

 

Presentation:

Serve “make your own fajitas” style alongside flour and corn tortillas, black beans, rice, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, vegan cheese, vegan sour cream, and salsa.

Summer (or anytime) Vegan Chili

Today’s Meatless Monday recipe is brought to you by my dear friend and client Leila. She brought us meals more than once during the weeks following our boys’ births and deaths. This recipe she was a little nervous about because she was just starting the adventure of vegan cooking but it turned out great! This chili is very tasty and it’s even nice for summer because it’s lighter than a traditional chili- with pinto beans replacing kidney beans, and a light tomato base- and the corn is sweet and in season. Enjoy!

Pinto Bean Chili with Corn and Butternut Squash

Yield: 6 servings (serving size: 1 1/2 cups chili + 1 lime wedge)

Ingredients

• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1 1/2 cups chopped onion
• 1 1/2 cups chopped red bell pepper
• 1 garlic clove, minced
• 2 tablespoons chili powder
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
• 4 cups (1/2 inch cubed and peeled) butternut squash (about 1 pound)
• 3 cups cooked pinto beans
• 1 1/2 cups water
• 1 cup whole kernel corn (can use frozen)
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 (14.5 ounce) can crushed tomatoes, not drained
• 1 (4.5 ounce) can chopped green chilies, not drained
• 6 lime wedges

Preparation

Heat olive oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Add onion, bell pepper, and garlic; cover and cook 5 minutes or until tender. Add chili powder and cumin; cook 1 minute, stirring constantly.

Place onion mixture in a 5 quart electric slow cooker. Add butternut squash and next 6 ingredients (through chilies). Cover and cook on low 8 hours or until vegetables are tender and chili is thick. Serve with lime wedges.

 

 

Vegan Love

After we got home from the hospital our good friend Rebecca was kind and thoughtful enough to set up a “Take Them a Meal” schedule. She sent it out to many of our friends and we were blessed with meals every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for over a month! Jeremy and I were humbled and amazed at the love and willingness of others to do this for us and it really helped. Especially in those first weeks when we honestly wouldn’t have remembered to eat unless someone showed up on our door step, meal in hand.

I was impressed too by how many people tried their hands at home cooking, vegan style. I’ve decided to start publishing the recipes from our friends on Mondays. Mondays, as some of you may know, are a part of a movement in the veg world to go meatless on that day every week as a way to reduce- impact on the environment, natural resources, animal suffering, waste. So in honor of “Meatless Mondays” I will share the recipes that graced our home in our time of need and filled us with nourishment and love.

I told my friend Danielle that I was planning on doing this as a way to “transition away from death.” She laughed and I appreciated that. I like when friends can laugh with me in the dark times too. I always envisioned this blog as having things like vegan recipes and products too. Of course I thought a lot of that would relate to what I’d be feeding our boys and cloth diapering and eco-friendly versions of products like diaper cream .  But some days I come here to write and it’s too hard. The pain is too much. So a recipe is a little lighter and easier. My friends had no idea when they brought those meals how even now it’s helping me to still write, still process, but have a little break from it too.

Today’s recipe is a Wheat Berry Salad from Heidi Swanson’s Super Natural Cooking cookbook. Our dear friends Joellen and Geir made it for us and brought it by with a bottle of wine and spent some time hanging out. It is light and delicious- absolutely perfect for summer. I’m still doing the juicing and hot yoga detox, which Jer calls”baby Auschwitz” (funny and offensive!) because the first time I was doing this combo in January I didn’t know I was pregnant! Our poor little boys were sweatin’ it out with nothing but juice to get through their first couple of weeks. I didn’t know, sorry. The minute I saw a plus sign I ran and ate a cantaloupe. True story. Anyways, when I’m off the juice (ha!) I’ll be making lots and lots of this salad. It’s that good. Enjoy!

 

 

Wheat Berry Salad with Citrus, Pine Nuts, (Vegan) Feta and Spinach

Ingredients:
2 cups soft wheat berries, rinsed
6 cups water
2 teaspoons fine-grain sea salt, plus more as needed

Citrus Dressing:
Grated zest and juice of 1 orange
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 tablespoon minced shallot
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Fine-grain sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

3 generous handfuls spinach leaves, stemmed and well rinsed
1 cup toasted pine nuts
1/2 cup crumbled (Vegan) feta cheese

Combine the wheat berries, water and 2 teaspoons salt in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer, covered, until plump and chewy, about an hour or so. The berries should stay al dente, and the only way to be sure they’re done is to taste a few. Drain and season to taste with more salt.

To make the dressing, combine the orange zest and juice, lemon juice, and shallot. Whisk in the olive oil and season with a few pinches of salt and a few grinds of pepper.

Toss the hot wheat berries with the spinach, pine nuts, citrus dressing, then top with the (Vegan) feta. Taste for seasoning and sprinkle with a bit more salt if needed.

Serves 4 to 6.

The Face of Grief

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted, I know. I’m not supposed to start out a blog like that, I know that too. I’ve had lots on my mind as you might imagine, and have planned many times to write it all out. Every time I went to do so the thought of it seemed too overwhelming, too tiring. But today it’s been 2 months since our boys were born. Two months since we held them and kissed them and said good-bye. It’s gotten harder in many ways with the distance of time. I know “time heals,” but I think the time frame on this particular wound is pretty long.

There’s a resistance to the passing of time, at least for me. The more time passes the more separated I feel from the life and lives I so desperately wanted. For a woman who normally embraces change, the thought that I wish the world would just stop or better yet go backwards is replacing my normal push forward. This new life, which is in essence my old life, is difficult to accept. Rationally I know the deal. There is no “new” or “old” it’s all just life. My life. As unfair and no where near what I wanted it to be as it is. I also know that this may not even be the worst of it. I can only control my actions and reactions, nothing else. Knowing that something just as or even more terrible (what could that be?) might be lurking around the corner is a constant. I worry much more about Jeremy than ever before. I’ve always worried, especially when I know he’s driving, but it’s intensified. I try not to act on it but if it’s getting late and I haven’t heard from him that he’ll be working late I can feel a bit of panic creep over me and I call him hoping, but not necessarily expecting, to hear his voice on the other end. I still choose to live and leave the house- which is harder some days more than others. I find that I really like being at home and even alone much more than I did before. There’s a safety here, a quiet that I crave. And my boys are here. At least their physical selves in their tiny urns. It’s something. It’s what I have.

Being out and about these last two months has been hard. Unexpectedly so. Everywhere I go I remember the last time I was there when I was pregnant. How it felt to even walk to work or cross the street pregnant. To go to church and worship, so thankful for the babies inside me. I remember how others looked at me, helped me, opened doors, asked about the babies. There was an excitement and a purpose to every step. My life had a definite direction, new and intimidating and awesome. I really miss that. And I really, really miss my boys.

Recently I’ve thought a lot about the pregnancy. I realized that throughout the pregnancy I was drawn to stories of loss and told stories of loss. As I’ve mentioned before, my friend lost her baby boy at 19 weeks and I thought a lot about her during my pregnancy. Reading her baby loss blog connected me to other blogs that dealt with loss. I would read them and weep, knowing there were no guarantees with my pregnancy either. A friend from high school contacted me when she heard we were having triplets. She has twins, but she also told me about the baby girl that she lost, stillborn, and how she and her husband dealt with that. Then our fellow blog friend who was pregnant with triplets lost her babies. Again, I just wept for her and her husband and hung on every post wanting to know how they were surviving through such tragedy. Friends told me not to read them. They said that of course my babies would be fine, not to worry. I didn’t really think anything would happen to our babies, but I did have a strong sense that those stories of loss deserved my attention and respect. Even when getting my blood drawn a woman in the waiting room asked about my pregnancy. When I told her it was triplets she told me that she also had triplets, but that they died the day they were born. It was heartbreaking and shocking, yes, but instead of feeling upset at her for telling me or stopping the conversation, I felt compelled to know more. What happened? How was she doing now, years later? I told her again and again how very sorry I was and felt only love for her. Looking back now (and even at the time, though I dared not admit it) I see a preparation that was happening for my loss. God knew this would happen and He knew He would not stop it from happening, so He provided connections to others who have experienced the loss of a baby or babies. Connections that have led to even more stories of loss and more amazing women behind those stories who are becoming friends in the darkness.

I’m also doing some things for me, as people keep telling me to do. I’m giving myself at home facials and getting pedicures and massages. I’m using a scrub consistently for the first time in years, enjoying longer showers and the hope of glowing skin. I’ve started doing hot yoga 6 days a week at an hour and a half a pop. My body had not had a work out in 6 months so it was a bit of a shock at first but it’s starting to shape up and enjoy the process. It’s been therapeutic and detoxifying for me to be doing yoga again. And necessary as I have 30 pounds to lose to get back to pre-pregnancy weight. I’m not hard on myself for the weight- I know it was necessary- but honestly, it makes me really sad to have it without my babies. I’m also juice fasting- 10 days in- and plan to do this for 21 days. That’s again something I’ve used in the past to detoxify, recharge, reset. I do it a lot during times of extreme stress or when I notice my lupus and fibromyalgia are acting up. It helps to focus me during stress and it alleviates my symptoms completely. I take it really seriously and there’s a control to it and a methodology for juicing which feels nice when your world is so emotionally chaotic. Put the pieces of the juicer together; wash and cut the produce; juice; clean and dry the juicer; repeat.

Here I am in a lovely minty mask from "earthscience" purchased at Whole Foods.

The veggies for one of my juices.

The downside- all those veggies only make this much juice! But it's so yummy.

 

Eulogies

These are the eulogies I read at the memorial for my baby boys. I miss them so.

 

Rudyard

My strong, brave boy. I’m so thankful for your life. I didn’t feel you very often inside of me, yet somehow, maybe because we knew your name the longest, I felt so close to you from the start. I would talk to you by name when your brothers were still Baby B and Baby C. At first I was less sure than your daddy about your name, afraid it a bit much for a little boy on the playground. But as the weeks passed I fell more and more in love with your name as I fell more and more in love with you. I imagined you with ruddy cheeks and red hair, an intellectual with a poet’s soul. My little man, keeping your brothers in line. For 22 weeks you held strong beneath the weight of your brothers, even after your water broke. You fought tirelessly your last week of life because your mama asked you to. Thank you for fighting. Thank you for trying so hard to protect your brothers and me. Thank you also for knowing when it was time to let go. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t let go, so you let go for me. You were already gone when I held you but you are my firstborn, the first of my children in my arms and I will never forget that. You had a rough entry, which caused a ruddy complexion, just like I’d pictured. You had obviously been through a battle, but to me you looked perfect. I think of you the most because of what you went through. I’m so very sorry you had to endure so much in your short life. I’m thankful that you now know only peace and will never have to fight again. I love you Rudyard, my strong, brave, beautiful boy. I miss you every second and I’m so incredibly proud of you and so thankful to be your mama. I still don’t know how to let go of you but in your example I’ll say good-bye for now. I will see you again my son.

 

Desmond

My sweet, handsome boy. I’m so thankful for your life. I felt you move for the first time at 14 weeks. I texted your daddy and said “I’m not sure but I think I just felt a baby move! It felt like something swimming under my skin!” After that day I felt you almost every day since, including your birthday. First as butterfly flutters and then as nice big kicks. Our bond was strong through this physical relationship. When I hadn’t felt you yet in a day I would talk to you and ask you to kick. I’d tap my belly and wait with anticipation and you’d usually oblige. You were more fickle with your daddy’s requests but I’ll never forget the first time he felt you kick. Thank you Desmond for giving that gift to your father and to me. Your daddy always said that he thought you would be the most like me. I kind of thought so too- my little activist with a romantic soul; a believer in kindred spirits, just like his mama. You did end up with my dark brown hair, which made me smile. I was hoping you would.  One thing is for sure: whether you ended up as a heart throb actor doing ads for PETA, or a missionary in the African bush, I always knew you’d do great things for this world. You weren’t here very long my dear one, but you touched the hearts of thousands of people, just like I knew you would. I am so proud of you Desmond and I love you with such vast love. I had the most time with you alive in my arms and I’m so thankful for that and so very thankful to be your mama. I miss you every second of every day and I can’t wait to see you and hold you again.

 

Oscar

My tiny, baby boy. I’m so thankful for your life. You are my youngest, over an hour and a half younger than your brothers, which for triplets is a rarity. We were hoping against hope that you’d be able to stay with us, safe in my womb. You listened to your mama and tried to hold on. I’m so sorry that wasn’t enough. It’s not fair what happened to you, but you were so brave little one. I always pictured you as my little daredevil; a mischief-maker, trying to out do and impress his brothers. This seemed especially fitting when we learned at our last anatomy scan that you were smaller than your brothers and that this was most likely genetically how you would remain. Even though we planed to keep the birth order a secret, I knew I would have a special place in my heart for you as a fellow youngest. I imagined you coming to me with “it’s not fair!” and “Rudyard and Desmond won’t let me…” and “they say I’m too little to…” and I would smile and tell you I understood and “no, it’s not fair” and then I’d go have a talk with your brothers. I think you would have been the comic relief in the trio, our funny man, just like your daddy. A little goof ball, yes, but smart as a whip. I look forward to someday hearing your stories and learning all about the adventures you’re no doubt having right now. I love you Oscar and I miss you with every breath I take. I am so thankful to be your mama and I’m so very proud of you. I can’t wait to squeeze you tight and kiss your little face and walk hand in hand with you for eternity.