Your brother will be 31 weeks along on Sunday. That is the oldest you got to be. From here on out he will get to do things you didn’t get to do. He will keep growing and be born alive. He will get to cry in our arms. He will get to open his eyes and learn to see. He will get to hear our voices with no fluid in the way. He will eat all the milk instead of giving it away.
I have been afraid of this moment since I got pregnant again. I was afraid he wouldn’t make it, that I would have to say goodbye again. I was afraid people would think that it was a setback, but that things were “ok” again. Things will never be ok again. Not wholly. Not for our family. But they will be good, and I am afraid of that too. I’m afraid that this new baby boy will show me exactly and in excruciating detail what I missed out on with you.
In fact this is what I am afraid of most of all. I know what it felt like to deliver you. To hold you. To touch your face and to know I couldn’t keep you. But I didn’t know what it felt like to feed you, and nurture you and watch you grow. And now I will know. I will know what I missed with you.
I’m sorry that you couldn’t do those things with me. I think I tell you I am sorry in every letter that I write. I will never stop being sorry for whatever it was that caused you to die. I am sorry that we will never know, and that I couldn’t save you. That I couldn’t protect you. I am sorry that at this time last time I didn’t know what would happen. I’m sorry to your brother that this time I know. That his birth will be bittersweet, because I will think of you. And miss you.
All my love,
|I took this the day before Oliver died, to show how huge I felt in relation to this comically small watermellon.|