Entry 018

Today would be my first baby’s birthday. Today, our house should be full of decorations and happiness. Today, we should be celebrating one year with the baby who made us parents. Instead, our house is quiet and empty. 

My arms should be full today and my cheeks should hurt from smiling. Instead, I’m mourning the loss of my fifth baby. 

I should’ve spent the past few weeks planning the perfect ONEderful or First Trip Around the Sun or Wild One themed birthday party. Instead, I’ve been trying to comprehend how this happened again and that any birthday celebration is even further out of sight.

I should’ve been wrapping new clothes or toys for my one-year-old to only prefer the box of. But instead, I placed a dozen pregnancy tests and the ultrasound photos of when our last sweet babe’s heart was still beating in a zip lock bag with the sticky note of important days I’ve written four times before, and placed it inside that brightly colored Noah’s Arc box that lives on our closet floor.

Instead of reading birthday cards addressed to the name I’ve dreamt of seeing in someone else’s writing, I’ll re-read the words I wrote to the mama who just lost her baby that I prayed I would never be saying to myself again.

Instead of reflecting on the past year of life with our baby, I’ve spent the day wondering how any of this is real. How am I a mother to five angels? 

Emily Lindquist