Three Years

Today marks the three year anniversary of Donna Rose's death and birth. Some of the details fade, but some remain so clear in my mind. I remember walking down the stairs the evening before and telling Ben that our plans for the evening were changing, that I needed to go to the hospital rather than bible study. I remember how worried the ultrasound tech seemed, even though I wasn't shown the ultrasound until after the doctor arrived. I remember how truly AWFUL it seemed to me that the hospital would offer to "terminate" my baby. And that was a decision I was given, not once but twice. I remember how difficult it was for me when I had been flown down to Denver and Ben was still on the road, how the doctors wanted me to make life and death decisions and I wanted to talk to Ben, but couldn't reach him because I didn't know his phone number and he had MY phone and wasn't answering it. I remember picking the option with the best mathematical odds. I remember the doctor telling me that if I went into labor, they wouldn't do anything to stop it. I remember calling my parents and hearing my mother's voice for the first time since I told my dad that I was pregnant. I remember the awful peace I had when I knew that I was having contractions and that my baby was not going to live beyond the day. I remember feeling so helpless and being so grateful for the pain because it was easier to deal with the physical hurt than the emotional hurt of losing my little girl. I remember someone telling me they could see my little girl kick as she was being born (she was breach) though I don't remember who. I remember being told she was stillborn because her heart wasn't beating and I would never get to hold her in my arms while she was alive. I remember the wonderful nurse (I wish I knew her name) who took pictures of Donna Rose for Ben and me so that we would always have precious memories.  She posed Donna Rose so that she looked like she was sleeping. I remember getting a call from Medicaid telling me that I had finally been approved, and having to tell them that I was losing the baby. I remember holding Donna Rose for the last time, how cold she was. I remember going to the funeral home and how compassionate the gentleman was when we explained our situation. I remember Ben making the decision to have our daughter cremated. I hated the idea of having my daughter burnt and knowing that I could never hold her again, but we couldn't stand the thought of leaving her behind if we moved. There are so many other memories, but I will save them for another time. Happy Angelversary, my dear daughter! Daddy and I miss you very much.

Once more

My Dear Daughter,

Here we are coming up on the second anniversary of your birth and death. It's still very painful for your daddy and me. Two years ago today, I went into the ER in Greeley, a little bit worried because of spotting, but never dreaming that it could mean your death. I remember the worried looks from the nurses and doctors. I remember the cold helicopter ride to Denver. And I remember the pain of everything that happened the next day there. In a couple of years, we will have to explain to your little brother why October 28 is such a special day. I remember so many things about that day clearly. I remember talking to your Grandma Donna on the phone. I remember the sheer exhaustion from being up all night. I remember the pain and the mental numbness of that night. I remember the sense of dread, knowing that I wouldn't get to take my baby home with me. I remember holding you for the first time and how very tiny you were. I remember marveling over how perfectly formed you were. I remember your body heaving in my hands as though you were trying to breathe, but the doctors said your heart had stopped before you were born. I remember dressing you in the little clothes they gave us and wrapping you in the blanket someone had made for you. What a blessing to us was the care that someone took to make clothes and blankets for an angel they would never meet. I remember crying with your daddy. I remember talking to your Aunt Miranda on the phone and the heartbreak in her voice when I told her you wouldn't make it. I remember feeling like I had to comfort her because she sounded so much sadder than I did, but the finality of your death hadn't hit yet. And I remember talking to your Aunt Beth, though I don't remember what she had to say.

I think your daddy and I are learning to live around our grief pretty well. Fewer things make us sad and we can rejoice in the miracle of your short life now. However, we miss you deeply and your absence causes us both a deep pain. As long as we live, you will never be forgotten.

Love always,

Mommy

A letter to my daughter

Dear Donna Rose,

Right now, I am sitting in a hospital room waiting for your little brother to decide when he wants to come. This hospital room is only a little like the room they put me in when you were born. It's a much smaller room, but that's not a bad thing. The only people in here most of the time are the nurses and me. Sometimes the doctor comes by to have a chat and your daddy comes to visit when he isn't working. In your hospital room, There were at least three doctors and two nurses all the time. I was attached to monitors all the time and stuck in bed. Here, they attach monitors every 8 hours and check your brother's heart beat every 4 hours or so. I can't help but compare the differences between then and now. We were so sad in that room. In here, I have some roses your daddy gave me and one of our Donna Bears so that you will always be a part of your brother's life. Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I remember how hard last year's Mother's Day was. In church, they asked all mothers to stand up and I didn't know if that included me or not. I certainly didn't feel like a very GOOD mother. The ladies in church made me stand up too and I cried. Your daddy and I think about you all the time. We miss you so very much and wish you were here with us getting ready for your little brother to come.

Love,

Mommy