A Letter To Our Baby of 11 Weeks

Dear Little Nugget,

I don’t know how to write this letter without unearthing a world of emotions. As I write this, I find myself taking deep breaths with tears in my eyes as the wounds are still fresh, physically and emotionally.

You know this by now (maybe before even we knew about it) but we lost you five days ago. I was alone at home while your dad was at work and what started as small drops of blood earlier that week turned into heavy blood accompanied with cramping. I thought the cramping was just growing pains but then the pain started escalating to a point where it was so unbearable I didn’t know what to do with myself. It was at this point that your dad came home and tried (when I say tried I mean tried cause no amount of stroking my back helped) to comfort me until the pain just stopped. I thought it was just an answer to our prayers but when I went to the bathroom, I felt something come out of me and before I got the chance to even look at it, it went straight down the sewers, never to be found again. Everyone who is reading this will know that it was at this exact moment that we lost you. I knew it but I didn’t want to believe it.

Two days later, I find myself in a cold and dark room with two people I’ve never met before to find out how you were doing in my tummy. Your dad wasn’t even there. He was sitting outside the room, hoping he could come in, but the hospital policy wouldn’t have allowed him to. The doctor asked a few questions but as she was examining me, I felt the room get too quiet. No smiles or other words were exchanged between us. All I heard was her whisper to the nurse the words “no embryo” found and it took every ounce of courage inside me to hold back my tears and keep a straight face. The results wouldn’t come out until after 20 minutes later but I already knew. I saw through the eyes of the people in the room with me and heard what little they had to say. You were gone and there were no words that brought comfort. We cried all the way home, your dad maybe more than me, but we held each other and just cried. We never held you but we already loved you, even if you were probably smaller than your dad’s thumbs. And it hurt, losing you like that. Our heads filled with questions about what we could’ve done better. So we did what we usually did, we just cried and hugged each other. And ate pizza on the floor, like we’ve done so many times before.

A lot of people may say that all this heartache could’ve been avoided if I expected to lose you, to miscarry. They would say that if only I’d been realistic with my expectations (women with PCOS have 50% more chances of miscarriage), it wouldn’t have hurt as much. Perhaps they’re right. They’re right if you want to live a life that’s free of pain. They’re completely wrong if you want to live a full life. Me and your dad have always strived to live full lives, despite the heartaches and the failures, and we weren’t about to change that with you.

If there’s one thing I could tell you right now is that you are (and will be) worth it every time.

We lost you at 11 weeks but from the moment we found out about you, we loved you and believed in the best for you. I imagined holding you in my arms. I imagined seeing your dad sing you to sleep. I imagined us bringing you to the places we love and hope that you’d love it the same way we did. I imagined teaching you about love, about our faith, and about how life is meant to be lived with significance. I imagined life with you and I would often talk to you as if you could hear me. I loved you fully, with no reservations just like I love your dad. And if loving you like that made the pain so much more worse, it doesn’t matter. You are worth every single ounce of love (and pain). And if asked to do it again with the same outcome, I would gladly go through it again knowing that there’s no other way to live.

If you were with us right now and could fully understand what I’m saying, I would tell you that you should make a life that’s worth it every time. A life that’s a lot like you. A life that’s worth every pain, every struggle, and every seemingly bottomless pit you’re sure to encounter.

I would tell you to be true to yourself.

To skip the long line of people wanting to please each other and take the road more arduous, with less people, that seeks to please no one else but the one who made you.

I would tell you to love fully and unconditionally.

To love, leaving nothing for yourself. To love and pour yourself out the way I was never taught to love but did anyway.

I would tell you to dream, to dream big even if it doesn’t make sense.

To not let the realities of life get in the way of pursuing what your heart longs for. To not let impossibilities get in the way of your dreams because the truth is, everything worth dreaming of seems impossible at the start.

I would tell you to be brave.

That life isn’t easy and you won’t get through it without a few (or if I’m being honest, a lot) of cuts, and burns that can sometimes knock you out. But don’t ever let that phase you. Life is tough but you’re tougher. And everytime you get knocked down, we’re here to pull you back to your feet and teach you how to fight.

There’s so many more I would’ve loved to tell you but I can’t because you won’t grow up to see the sun rise every morning. You won’t grow up to feel the fuzzy kisses your dad gives every morning. You won’t grow up exploring the world with us. You won’t grow up with us period. It sucks but that’s okay. We move forward and take all the lessons we’ve learned from you along the way.

After all, we will see you again.

Love,

Mom

P.S. I’m sorry I accidentaly flushed you down the toilet.

)

The Black and The Bald

Written by

Trying to live the best life we possibly can and writing about it along the way.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade