I'm Who I Am Today, Because I Knew You

But what if the story had been different, if you've gotten to stay? Together, we'd be the greatest team there's ever been, with no fight we couldn't win.

If I went to the store today
I’d need to look at more than a girls’ size six display.
I’d also fill my cart with tiny dreams, 
Matching 3T sets and newborn seams. 

If I went to the store today,  
I'd drive in a van where the kids would play.  
With four car seats sitting snug,  
My heart would undoubtedly explode with love.    

The aisles we'd roam with two carts or a stroller,  
Every small chaos just making me bolder.  
Had motherhood never been taken away,  
I'm not sure I'd have enough perspective 
to take in everything that day. 

If I went to the store today,
I’d only pick out the softest clothes - the kind that stay.
But I'd let my oldest girl, with thoughtful grace,
Pick out what she loves, joy dancing on her face. 

If I went to the store today, you'd see me, all things handled,  
I’d be a version of me that hadn't unraveled.   

If I went to the store today, I'd look calm and composed,  
A version of me whose life hadn't decomposed.   

If I went to the store today, I'd seem steady and whole,
A version of me not previously fractured, still very much in control. 
Not broken, not guarded, not waiting to fall, 
Not a mom burying babies long before they should've learned to crawl.

There would've been no Skyway, no Hopemark, no Ketamine,
no therapists or medication to stitch the seams between
the Amanda of the past and the Amanda unseen. 
Now just a mom in the moment, living simple dreams,
A home filled with chaos, with giggles and noise,
A life overflowing with perfectly ordinary joys. 

If I went to the store today, you'd just see me and my girl
Not the tightly clenched fists I'm afraid to unfurl. 
If I'd never lost babies, if I'd never had to say goodbye, 
My whole life would be different - I'd never look to the sky and cry. 

One more thought: On onesies and wish purchases stashed in the back of my closet,  
needles in bins on shelves too high to reach but still part of the composite. 
On leftover clothes, accessories, bottles and bedding from B’s newborn days collecting dust, realizing that our family plan has forever changed, and I'm still desperately trying to adjust. 

I realize that reading a series of posts, focusing on very specific moments or seasons in time may feel unrelatable, but I’ve been called to write through this with two intensive purposes - one, to be a landing page for someone who is new to their loss journey and is desperately searching for a story like theirs, and two, so as I slowly move forward, I can find ways to move around the pay, to remember the babies beyond their moments of crisis and instead think about who they would’ve been, what our family would’ve been like today, with B approaching six, Noah and Victoria having just turned three, and sweet Rowan maybe around 3 months old. I’d likely still be {trying to} breastfeed. I’d have three kids in diapers and the best helper in the world. Everything would be different - AND, that’s not the story we got to live.

So tonight, just like every other night this month when I couldn’t sleep, I opened the notes app on my phone and started scribing away. Tonight I feel both pain and loss in the gaping hole inside of my abdomen where my reproductive organs lived just a few days ago, and I realize this rollercoaster is going to be in full effect for quite some time.

Just as I wish someone would’ve told me when I wasn’t in a place of giving myself permission or grace, if at any point reading posts like these doesn’t feel helpful to you, please stop.

I promise I’ll go back to sprinkling into other content shortly, and by summer, you might even find my writing to cover a whole new direction.

So much to look forward to.

So much to hold onto.

So much I’m choosing to do, because I knew you.