My last post held letters to my future “baby bee.”
Those letters hold everything I want my child to know: that (s)he is loved, wanted, and prayed for.
But there are things those letters lack: the anger, the pain, the struggle.
Sure, they make mention of those, briefly. But they really don’t accurately represent the negative thoughts. And why should they? Eventually, when those letters are handed down, I don’t want the burden of the hardship I faced (am facing) to be felt by my son/daughter. So I leave them out. But if I were 100% honest, this is what the letters would look like:
Baby Bee #1,
I had you. I had you and I lost you. What did I do? I was so good. I didn’t drink. I didn’t smoke. Hell, I didn’t even eat cheese, or deli meat, or seafood! I don’t understand. I tried so hard to have you.
And I did. I did have you. For a precious few weeks I held you within me.
And then you were gone.
The next thing I knew, I was looking down, sobbing into a bloody toilet bowl, wanting desperately to scoop you up and put you back inside me.
I know. I know, that’s disgusting. But you don’t understand, bumblebee. You weren’t supposed to leave me yet.
They tell me this is normal. They tell me miscarriages are common. They tell me it will probably never happen again.
But this is not normal and it should not be common. Even if I will never lose another child, my heart will still yearn for you. You were, and always will be, my first baby.
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry I failed you.
Love, your heartbroken mommy
Baby Bee #3,
Here we are again, child.
Me, staring at a tiny, thin, faint pink line.
You, nestled deep somewhere in me.
At this point, all I can do is beg. Please, please hold on tight. I know it seems like I’m a bad mommy, what with me continuing to do something wrong (because surely it’s my fault). But I promise you- I promise you-my little bumblebee, I will be everything I can be for you. Just give me a chance.
I’m so afraid, little one. They tell me birth is hard. They tell me that the hardest part is bringing a baby into the world and having it leave the safety of the womb. But for me, it’s the opposite. My body is enemy #1. If I can just keep you inside for a while, then you can come out and I can protect you for real. I can fight all your enemies here in the world… But I can’t fight my own body. I don’t know how to fight my own body. My body, the vessel that is supposed to keep you safe, constantly betrays me. Betrays you.
Please, please, please bumblebee. Take root. Hold on. Mommies heart just can’t take losing you.
Love, your desperate mommy
I know you exist. I know it. Somewhere in this vast universe-be it heaven or Earth or somewhere in between- you exist. I don’t know if you’re alive yet, waiting for me to come rescue you, or if you’re still nestled in the ovaries of either me or another woman. I do know you’re out there, though. Somewhere. I will find you, bumblebee. I will be your mommy. And, dammit, I’ll be a good mommy.
I’ve tried really, really hard to find you. It’s been a long time. Just a bit shy of two years, actually. Two. Whole. Years. I’ve had you and lost you 4 times now-that I know of. I’ve been to 4 doctors. I’ve spent almost $10,000 so far. I’ve searched the Internet for hours and hours, late into the night. I’ve tried silly, stupid, little things. I’ve tried crazy, horrifying, scary things. I’ve recently tried turning in applications for adoption. I’ve tried finding God, bargaining with God, praying to God, and being angry with God. I don’t know what else I can do.
So I guess I’ll just wait for you. Whoever you might be, wherever you might come from, find me when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.
Love, your waiting mommy