Preparation

Dear Nora,

I did everything I could think of to prepare for your arrival. I went to four different grocery stores in two days to make sure we had everything we or any visitors could have needed or wanted. I unpacked as many boxes as I could and put things away so the house we hoped to bring you to would feel more like a home. I made list after list of things we needed to do, buy, and pack. I made lists of items we had that I knew you’d never get to use and tried my best to hide them from myself. I had more conversations than I can count. Conversations with your Daddy, with our families, my friends, your sisters, and our doctors. We talked about your anatomy, medical trials, what we wanted out of life for you, how we could maximize our time with you, where visitors would stay, how your sisters would be cared for and more. We talked over and over every detail there possibly was. Sometimes we even argued, I always felt so guilty that you had to hear us argue. We booked Air BnBs and ordered take out. We made meal plans, advanced Easter plans and birthday plans for Ellie. We came up with a list of things we wanted to do with you, things we really wanted you to experience and we did them. We played in the snow, went to the beach, and had a family dance party. I still have the list with all of its checkmarks on my phone.

People from all over the country booked flights and rental cars. I packed our hospital bag with things I wanted for you- your cozy outfit, blankets to keep you warm, a lovey for you to snuggle and books to read to you. I packed two bags for two scenarios. In one you’d be too sick to leave the hospital and in the other you’d give us more time. I did everything I could think of to prepare. Nothing could prepare me for what came after preparation. Nothing could prepare me for losing you, for walking out of the hospital with an empty carseat, for celebrating and mourning you.

We had a wake to celebrate you. We had planned on it all along. We chose the date before your arrival and told everyone, “if she’s still with us, you can meet her there.” Instead we had a slideshow of your short life and the photos we took with you in the hospital. We laid out the casts of your feet and your hand along with the memory box the hospital gave us. (I still remember receiving that box. I told your dad that it didn’t matter how many times you prepared one, it never prepared you to receive one. I had made those footprints, taken those photos, and tied those green ribbons for many families before. I always knew what I was doing was important for those families and their babies, but until I was handed one I had no idea just how impactful those boxes are. I am grateful for it every day.) Of course we had food and drinks and a bonfire; although I don’t think anyone made a single s’more. I didn’t take a single photo. I wish I had, but I have a few from our families and our closest friends which I cherish. We held your wake at the Air BnB we had been living in for the last couple of months of our pregnancy. It was nice to have something long term before moving into our home, but I hated so much of living there. It’s funny because now I’m nostalgic for the place. I’ve driven by it just to feel close to you. A lot of the day was a blur, but it was so special to have all those people we love come together to celebrate you and support us. It was beautiful, but it was a long day. We ended the day in the dark with nothing but the fire to light the dead of night. Just a few of us were left and it was really nice. Your Uncle Jeff and Titi wrote and recorded a song for you. We had been curious and strangely excited to hear it. Music had helped your dad and I both a lot through all of this and we felt so honored that they created something just for you. They played it for us there as we sat in the warmth of the fire’s glow. It took every ounce of strength I had not to let the primal sob of agony I felt escape as I listened to the beautifully familiar voices of your Aunt and Uncle sing the most perfect words I had ever heard. I don’t think I will ever be able to tell them how much it means to me. It was another thing I wasn’t as prepared for as I thought.

I think the thing I was prepared for least was receiving the world’s most beautifully sad gift bag. The gift bag that held your ashes in what was too small a box, tissue paper and all. When Maggie, the woman working at the funeral home, handed you to me with the sweetest look of sympathy on her face, I almost tore into it right then to make sure she hadn’t forgotten to put you in the bag. It was unimaginably light; the weight of a life, your life. A life that didn’t get a chance to live. We cried in the car as we drove away. We listened to your song and noticed as it was playing, a star on your gift bag. It was sad and beautiful and perfect. I thought of how the last of our family was leaving in a few short days. It would be nice to settle into our home as a family, but I wasn’t ready to let them go. The help everyone had provided was immeasurable. Maybe if the last few family members could stay just a bit longer we wouldn’t have to face the reality that this all truly happened. Maybe we could put off being required to rejoin the world that has been spinning on without us.

Love, Mommy

Originally written to Nora on April 2, 2021