A Letter to my Baby

To my little baby,

How I wish to have been able to meet you; to feel you grow inside me; to hear your cries and giggles; to hold you at least once. Life is hard without you, immensely hard. The pain I’ve felt has been incomprehensible. I didn’t know that pain like this existed.

You entered my life unexpectedly; you caught your dad and I off guard. We didn’t know how to react, what to say to each other and what to do. I was so happy to have you in my life, yet I was so worried to tell anyone about you. So worried that I wouldn’t get to meet you. I need you to know that this was nothing to do with you, but was about the stage in my life and the struggles that your dad and I were going through.

You were absolutely created with love, I will always know and acknowledge that. I need you to as well. I constantly think about the what ifs, the if onlys, the what could or should have beens. But they only hurt me further. I can’t go back and change anything and I can’t bring you back to life. Even if your dad and I had reacted differently, it may not have changed anything.

Many have tried to tell me that losing you was nature’s way of telling me that you weren’t viable, that you weren’t meant to be. I can’t believe that. You were my baby; you were growing inside me for almost seven weeks. I need to think and feel that you were meant to be, that all living creatures are viable. But in the end, you decided that it wasn’t right to come into this world, into my life further than you had.

I don’t blame you for anything; I’m trying not to blame myself. I’d like to blame someone or something, but that’s not me. I can question the facial cleanser I used, the drinks I had, the hot bath I enjoyed, and the salad on my burger. It won’t help, I’ll never have an answer and the outcome won’t change.

I see other babies around, other pregnant women and I want to be a part of it, I want them to be me, to be us. But that can’t happen. I need to try and let you go, so I can move on. I’ve been told I need to stop thinking about the dates and counting up. But that only disrespects you and dismisses what you were to me. You were my baby; you are my baby. I can’t and won’t forget you.

I’ve been quite lucky in my life; I’ve not suffered a lot of heartache and experienced very little grief. Maybe I needed to suffer, or learn from you to be the best person I can be. Learn and truly know and believe that one day I’ll be an amazing mum.

Maybe things weren’t meant to be for your dad and I. If they were meant to be, we would have worked through things better, shared in our grief at your loss, or shared in our happiness at our initial gain. I don’t know what your dad went through, but he wanted you, though you sure as hell scared him. He wanted you to be a boy; he wanted to take you to the football, to teach how to kick a soccer ball (he had no clue with an AFL footy, I would have taken on that task!). The truth is I think he would have been even more scared if you were a girl; though I would have insisted that you still get taught soccer and be taken to the footy.

I wanted you to be happy and healthy; at times I did want you to be a girl, simply out of spite to your dad. However I only considered girls names and one kept re-emerging: Lily. There are lots of Ls in my family and I think it would have fitted in nicely. I also liked the idea of having Jane as your middle name, not just after me, but also because that is your Aunty Wendy’s middle name, so it would have been a nice reference to both sides.

I’ve just learnt that yesterday was International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I didn’t know it existed. I do know that many people hide the loss of their babies and struggle with their grief. An official day might help remove the stigma associated with miscarriage, might allow people to share their stories and their heartache. But it won’t bring their babies back or suddenly make them feel better. Only time will help us feel better, less sad and allow our grieving to come to an almost bearable level.

I do hope that I get to meet you one day; that you’ll tell me that you wish you had been able to meet me and show me your cries and your giggles and be held by me. That you knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that you were very much loved and oh so desperately wanted.

I’m coming to terms with the breakdown of my relationship with your dad; we’re even talking now without arguing and will be seeing each other soon. I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I do hope that we can one-day share in our pain, and joy, for you.

I’m not necessarily coming to terms with losing you, but it is getting easier each day. I’m putting myself out there and trying new things, taking this time to love myself again and look after me. Make sure I’m the best version of me that I can be, so that when the time is right, your little brother or sister will have the best of me. I hope that you’re there to look after them, guide them and me through our lives.

To my baby, I love you and I miss you.





Author: Laura

In my 30s, simply working my way or travelling my way through it.

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