I remember laying the the hospital bed, hearing the unmistakable swoosh-swoosh sound of a babies heartbeat on a monitor in the room next door, the crying of a brand new baby in another room. I remember being LIVID, that I had to be in labor with my baby, who was never going to cry, on the same floor as the babies who were healthy.
Even worse was the total silence of the room, when Kai was born. Until I heard, gut-wrenching sobs and realized they were coming from me.
I can't believe it's been three years since we lost Kai. When I posted last year I said I had three miscarriages. I had hoped and prayed I wouldn't face his Birthday with empty arms again, but here I am, two more miscarriages later and still with empty arms.
Most days now, I don't think about March 10th. I try not to. I could have never imagined the hurt would still be so bad.
Sensory recall is a bitch. The whole time we sat in the hospital room, we watched only 2 or 3 different shows (cable in this hospital is limited). I can't turn on those shows now, without feeling a knife in my chest. The sadness is so overwhelming.
I know this was nothing compared to losing someone you "know". I never had the pleasure of holding Kai, seeing him smile, or him being a part of my everyday, but I still feel like someone is missing.
This is the first of many letters I wrote to Kai.
From the moment the test turned positive, we were all in love with you. I couldn't wait to heart your heart beat and feel those first kicks. I wondered if you were a girl or boy, if you would look just like your brothers or be entirely different.
Seeing your little heart flutter the first time filled me with joy. As time went on you grew bigger and stronger. I loved watching the changes though ultrasound. You gave us a few scares, not being able to hear you with a Doppler, but it was always quickly fixed with an ultrasound. It was through those scares, we found out you were mostly likely a boy. I loved to feel you squiggling around, a constant reminder you were there.
That comfort all changed last week, when I woke up and realized my water had broken, I knew there was nothing that could be done to save you, but I raced to the hospital anyway. Hoping desperately that I was wrong. The hospital staff was optimistic, your heart beat was still strong, there was plenty of fluid, and I could feel you kicking away. I wish I had held on to those last few hours more...
Later the pains started, another trip to the hospital. This time the news was devastating, I was losing you. There was no fluid and your heart was slowing down. I could feel your kicks getting stronger, as you fought to live and it broke my heart.
The next morning you were gone. The world dropped out from under me. Pain and sorrow I never knew existed filled me.
I know you are safe in God's arms, but I can't help but be jealous. You belong with me, growing and healthy. After many long days, I gave birth to you, I felt so empty. I still do. Your brothers are still asking about you.
I wish I could have told you, I love you so much. I will hold you in my heart forever.
I can't stop the sorrow I feel, every time I rub my belly and realize it's empty. I keep wishing this was all a terrible dream, that you are still mine. People keep telling me this will get easier, that the pain will fade. I am sure they are right, but right now, it takes everything I have to breathe.
I pray you are peacefully sleeping in the arms of angels and that you know how very wanted and loved you are.
Not dead yet.
11 hours ago