ninth

Every August 27th for the past 9 years, the ache is there, more pronounced than usual.  I pray for all of our kids every day, and Lily, she was the first.  Our sweet girl.

My best friend, who always remembers, gave me flowers the other night and I could barely stop the tears.  She knows how hard this week always is for Anthony and me.  I told her I was pregnant before I told my parents.  She was there after my water broke and I was on strict bedrest.  She was there after we came home from the hospital without our twins.  So, she knows just what I need... for our children to be remembered.

I'm currently reading Out of the Clear Blue Sky by my favorite author, Kristan Higgins, who captures what it feels like to lose a child so beautifully:

"These things happen.  Oh, they happen all the time.  Everyone's life--especially every woman's life--is marked by something like this, it seems.  Miscarriage, infertility, breast or ovarian or uterine cancer.  It's so personal when our female parts fail us in some way.  So hard not to think that we--that I--had caused this, should've known, should've done something.

...Because she was born after twenty weeks' gestation, my daughter got a fetal death certificate, which meant she needed a name.  We could have left that part blank, but it seemed so cruel not to name her.  But we hadn't settled on one yet, and oh, the deep, aching pain of naming a child who was already gone.  The tragedy of it all.  The absolute, wrenching grief.

...And still, I thought of my poor little baby every day.  I'd held her there in the ambulance....I'd memorized her perfect face.  Every year on the first of December, the day I'd lost her, Brad would bring me flowers, and I'd cry a little (or a lot), remembering the fear and love and grief so pure it was like a scalpel, slicing my heart in half.

But you keep going.  The memory is there every day, but the days grow and multiply until it's years and years.  Her story was so brief, and after a while, there was nothing new to say.  She was branded on my heart, and she always would be.  It became my private loss, spoken of no more.  Brad had lost her, too, but he hadn't grown her inside him, felt every wriggle and kick; hadn't known my secret fear; hadn't seen all that blood or felt her tiny body slide out of me, even as I fought to keep her inside.

...I missed my girl in a way that still surprised me.  That after five years, ten years, twelve, I could still sob, alone in the downstairs bathroom, for my lost little girl.

...We would be best friends, my sweet girl and I....She would be smart and kind and helpful....Popcorn and movie nights, walks around the kettle ponds, kayaking, cooking, baking, laughing.  School events, her friends filling the house with the sound of their laughter...

My daughter would be my closest ally, and I would be hers...She'd lean her head against my shoulder and say, "You're my best friend, Mommy."

The longing...it never goes away.  My little girl.  How wonderful she would have been."

--Kristan Higgins, Out of the Clear Blue Sky

Yes, how wonderful our sweet Lily would have been.  We love you, baby girl.