You were never ours to keep. I knew it from the beginning, though I’m not sure how. As certain as I was that you were meant to be ours, I was just as certain that we wouldn’t get to keep you. I thought at first that it was because of our miscarriage that I felt this way. I thought that maybe I was trying to protect myself against another potential loss. “Surely the feeling will go away after the 20 week scan,” I’d thought.
Life can be so strange sometimes. The milestone I had been waiting for to ease my mind brought some truth to my mother’s intuition instead. I remember lying in bed with your dad one night shortly after the appointment talking about what it all meant, crying over our fears for you. “I don’t know why, but this whole time I had a strange feeling we wouldn’t get to keep her.” I’d said and we both lie there in tears.
Our nightly routine was just that, pretty routine. We’d take turns, your dad and I. One of us would wash the dishes, clean up from dinner and return any toys that remained strewn about the house to their regular places. The other one of us would give your sisters a bath, read stories and put them to bed. One night after bedtime, I remember bawling for such a long time. It had been my turn to bathe your sisters and put them to bed. They had such a fun and relaxing bath and didn’t even fight bedtime which rarely happens (understandably so, no one wants the fun of the day to end). I remember shampooing Rose’s hair and watching her as she relaxed into the sensation. She seemed so comforted by the scalp massage. I smiled and asked her if she was so cozy to which she responded with a big smile and a bit of a splash. I was so joyful in that moment.
The tears, triggered by bath time, started as I showered and continued all the way through my own bedtime routine and after my head was resting on my pillow. Sometimes I can get my best thinking done in the shower. It’s easier to process the day and any thoughts I might have when I’m not chasing after toddlers and it’s mostly quiet. Your dad came to bed a bit after I’d calmed down, but he could tell something was wrong and when he asked me, my response through tears and sobs was, “it sounds stupid, but what if she never gets to take a bath? Every baby deserves to experience a bath.” He assured me it wasn’t stupid. He understood without me having to explain that I wanted you to be able to enjoy the warmth and comfort a bath can bring. I wanted you to be able to have a little scalp massage and feel so cozy and relaxed. I wished you could splash with your sisters. I was worried that you wouldn’t get any of it and to me that felt crushing. So, understanding me, your dad held me as I cried until I couldn’t cry any longer, then we both went to sleep.
A lot of nights have gone like that after your diagnosis. Sometimes I am angry, sometimes I am sad, but I am always thinking of you and trying not to count the dwindling days we feel are guaranteed. I am missing you before you are gone and mourning all the things I know or worry we won’t get with you.
Love, Mommy
Originally written to Nora on February 3, 2021
Dear Nora 