With both of our miscarriages, my greatest pain has been the knowledge that even though I will never forget my babies, other people will. April and August (the due date months) will mean nothing to them. Neither will October or January (our months of loss). These months will be just like any other. When they see our family pictures, they'll forget that there are two smiling faces missing. To other people, we are a family of three. But not to me. We are a family of five.
To other people, it almost seems like our babies never even existed. More than anything else, that's what breaks my heart. Because they did exist-just as much as any other child. No, I don't know if they were boys or girls. I don't know what color hair they had. I don't know anything about them. But they were still a part of our family. I had dreams for them. I pictured them playing peek-a-boo with Rylan, learning how to crawl and then walk, going to school for the first time. I imagined what life would be like with them as a part of our family. All those dreams are gone now. They slipped through my fingers the moments my babies' hearts stopped beating.
I know it's awkward to ask how I'm doing. I know you're afraid you'll say something wrong. I know you don't want to make my pain worse. Please ask anyway. You might say the wrong thing. If you catch me on a bad day, you might even see me cry (as my dear friend, Shayla, did today). But when you ask, it tells me you care. It tells me you still remember. So thank you for asking. It's been 2 and half months, but I certainly still think about them every single day. Thank you for thinking about them too. And for telling me so. There are few gifts that mean as much to a grieving mom as the gift of remembering with them.