Every year, near the anniversary of my miscarriage, I write a letter of some sort. The first year, I was pregnant with my now-living daughter and made a video for her. Last year, I wrote it to my pre-miscarriage self. This year, I was in a space where I was able to write a short letter for Anthony, my baby that died during pregnancy at 10 weeks and 5 days.
It’s been 3 years since you started to leave. I can’t believe it’s been that long, and at the same time, I feel like it’s too short – I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.
Even in those early moments, you felt familiar. People will say “oh, at least you were only 10 weeks.” Have you ever met someone that changed your life the instant you met them? I met you when that test came back positive, and I was forever changed.
I knew you when you were the size of a blueberry. Small and fragile, but with a beating heart. You reminded me to slow down, eat what made sense (the pancake and gummy candy addiction is still here by the way – how did you instill that in utero???) and embrace the moment. Yes, I worried about you, but isn’t that what a mother does?
And yet, at the same time I was celebrating and sharing, I knew. I knew that deep down, you wouldn’t be here for long. I asked the questions, I followed the rules, I listened to their platitudes; “just relax. Everything is fine.” And yet, I knew. I just didn’t know when.
When you left, what I didn’t know was what you were leaving behind;
A strength I didn’t know I had.
Pain I couldn’t wrap my head around.
And a legacy that would be used to help others for years to come.
When people say “at least you were only 10 weeks,” they don’t know.
They don’t know what it’s like to carry a child and then feel them slowly and painfully leave you. Wanting so badly for them to just hang on and know there’s nothing you can do.
They don’t know how it feels to start over from an already long journey. You’ve come so far, but you’ve got so far to go.
They don’t know that I knew you. And of course I did – you’re my son.
I never met you, but I know your heart. Because it beat close to mine.
You were so small, but are doing such big things.
I am so proud to know you.
Merry Christmas, Anthony. I love you.