Archive for March 23rd, 2005

Dearest Jackson,

I want to start a tradition of writing you a letter each year on this day of days. And I’m going to start that tradition here. I want to be able to share with you what has happened around this family and how much we miss you.

One year ago today you were born. One year ago today we found out you were gone, and we couldn’t get you back. That was a really hard morning for your dad and I. And that sounds so much like a horrible understatement. I can still remember the smallest details. The excitement of the contractions, the small note of apprehension as I got dressed to go to the hospital. The tiniest voice in my head, asking, “When was the last time you felt the baby move?” The way the sky was just starting to lighten as your father steered the van down the interstate. Was it too early to go through the main entrance? No, it had just opened a few minutes ago. Perfect timing.

Pulling up in front. The contractions hitting hard as we got into the elevator. Settling into the room up in Labor and Delivery. We were so hopeful and excited! We couldn’t wait to see you, couldn’t believe you were coming when we least expected it. What is it about a scheduled c-section that makes a person believe they won’t have early labor?

Then the hard part. The nurse couldn’t find your heartbeat on the fetal monitor. Meanwhile, my own heart was racing. That tiny voice I’d heard just an hour earlier came back to me. The moment’s dragged out. The panic grew. The sun was rising, coloring the tiles on the ceiling above me. I can still remember the look on your father’s face. As the possibility started to dawn on him. That’s the worst part. That and him making the phone calls. I never thought I would hurt so bad.

I wanted oblivion. Amidst the horror, I was being prepped for my c-section. Still having contractions. I didn’t expect general anesthesia but I got it. I think they felt sorry for me. For us. Soon I was being led to the operation room. I said goodbye to your dad, not wanting to let go of him, leave him alone to deal with his grief.

That was the worst day of my life. To lose you before I even got a chance to know you. To give up all our plans for you, for our family. Three awful years of infertility leading to this. It wasn’t fair. I wanted so badly to be your mommy. Still, all this considered, the best moment of the day was after I woke up, and a wonder nurse named Joy put you in my arms. I never would have thought being able to hold you, see you, touch your cheek and study all your features would give me a sense of peace. But it did. I wish those moments could have lasted for hours.

We’ve been trying to get along. We’ve had some good this year. Not a lot, but some. Getting our first house was a good thing. I can remember watching the house be built, you snug in my tummy, kicking away. We had such dreams back then. But if it hadn’t been for this house I may have never made it through the spring and summer.

There’s been some bad this year too. More than good, it seems. There’s the stupid little things: the hit and run drunk driver who hit your father’s van in the middle of the night the month before we moved, shattering the back glass and destroying the liftgate. That was such a pain. There was my fall on the ice, which broke my ankle and necessitated surgery. Having to be off my feet for so long and everything else has been more difficult than I would have imagined. There was the surgery that your big brother needed in November to correct a testicle that had “un-descended”. It was such agony to see him in pain and there being nothing I could do about it. There was that horrible Christmas, where I couldn’t seem to get happy. Every holiday this last year has been tainted, it feels. Then there’s the continuing battles with infertility. I’m back on the Clomid rollercoaster. Dealing with inferility while grieving you has been so hard. But I just don’t know what else to do.

There has been a lot of bad this year. Our little family has suffered. I try to see the good, but there are days when it is so hard. We miss you so badly, Jackson. We worked so hard to get you into our lives. And you were taken from us, just like that. I think of you every day. I see your special shelf in the living room and thoughts of you fill my head. I can still remember how soft your cheek felt under my fingers. I need to remember that.

I’m hoping for a better year. I hope next year I’ll have happy things to report in my letter to you. In the meantime, we’re surviving. Today, your dad is taking the day off of work. We were going to go see a movie with your brother. But I need to use the money to go see the doctor instead. We will definitely be stopping by the cemetery to visit your grave. We havent’ been there in so long. I feel badly about that. But it hurts so bad to think about it, sometimes.

Happy Birthday, sweet angel. I wish we were celebrating it with you today. I love you and miss you.

– Momma

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