Today could've been the day...
Who would you be? What would you look? What would you see?
“Gone too soon” by Daughtry
Today could've been the day
That you'd blow out your candles
Make a wish as you closed your eyes
Today could've been the day
Everybody was laughing
Instead, I just sit here and cry
Who would you be?
What would you look like
When you looked at me for the very first time?
Today could've been the next day of the rest of your life
Not a day goes by
That I don't think of you
I'm always asking why this crazy world had to lose
Such a ray of light we never knew
Gone too soon, yeah
Would you have been president
Or a painter, an author, or sing like your mother?
One thing is evident
Would've given all I had
Would've loved you like no other
Who would you be?
What would you look like?
Would you have my smile and her eyes?
Today could've been the next day of the rest of your life
Not a day goes by
That I don't think of you
I'm always asking why this crazy world had to lose
Such a ray of light we never knew
Gone too soon, yeah
Not a day goes by
Oh
I'm always asking why
Not a day goes by
That I don't think of you
I'm always asking why this crazy world had to lose
Such a beautiful light we never knew
Gone too soon
You were gone too soon, yeah
Oooh
Oooh, oh
Not a day goes by
That I don't think of you
This song has been on the twins memorial playlist for three years now. I went through a big stint of listening to things on repeat two summers ago, and these lyrics just hit home a thousand ways to Sunday.
Last night, I got my period around 2 in the morning. I don’t think it’ll ever matter what day it is, what month or what year, but seeing 2am on the clock will always remind me of my quick and unidentified labor with the twins.
I came in my office to journal, and I found another trinket I suppose most would’ve gotten rid of by now - the calendar countdown for my pregnancy with Rowan.
I thought about pad I’d shoved into my underwear, and how even though I knew the need for this was coming, it didn’t make the sight any less jarring.
[Trigger Warning, pregnancy loss details]
By the time I delivered Noah, Victoria’s had already passed, and I’d been actively bleeding (and in first trimester labor) for 3 days. It should’ve been a sign to me in OB triage when Rick watched the nurse pull out handfuls of clots over and over again. In that moment I was scared, but absolutely not to the right level when it came to what was going to happen next. The veil had yet to be lifted. I still believed I could miscarry V without losing her brother.
There are two things that will forever haunt me from the night that I delivered Noah - a baby who came out alive - the fact that I didn’t know it was happening until it happened, and not trying to get handprints or foot prints or anything else tangible I could keep from his impossibly tiny body besides the horribly traumatic, unbelievably sacred photos of him and his sister. This is one time I am able to look back and give myself a little grace - the scariest and worst moment of my life had just occurred, I was alone, I had no medical or support professionals present, and I was absolutely unprepared for the entire thing.
Last night, when blood accidentally got on my fingertips, it left me rattled. Thinking back, that moment somehow felt differently traumatic (not exactly more or less, but on a similar scale) than the night and following first few weeks after Noah died. Emotionally it was a milestone each time something happened here, I’d look and see where he should’ve been in the “what size fruit am I?” App and how many weeks along I was. However physically, in retrospect I can tell you that I didn’t digest the trauma of his death until much later on.
How is that today, the blood stung more than it did on the worst morning of my life?
Who would Noah be if he’d lived?
If he’d have been born on his due date (lol that wouldn’t have happened), he’d be 2 years, 8 months old. If on the day I’d delivered him, he’d have been old enough, strong enough, medically supported as much as possible and survived, he’d be 3 years, 3 months old.
I think about B that way, during that stage of her precious miracle of a life and there’s a desperate longing in my heart.
When it comes to the three babies I’ve lost, Noah had the greatest chance of survival. Noah’s the only one I got to see, to touch, to hold. Noah will always be both the easiest and the hardest to discuss.
The night Rowan died I was in so much pain that I couldn’t think about the ramifications in real time. Thats what happened over the several months afterwards, when I couldn’t string sentences together or make myself do anything, to be honest. Losing Rowan, losing a fallopian tube, losing so much blood from something that we were explicitly told could NEVER happen - that was the unraveling. The betrayal of my body on so many different levels. The experience that left me in pieces, unconsolable and unwilling at first to even explore ways to come up for air.
Today, I should be 38 weeks pregnant with Rowan, or enjoying snuggles during an early morning feeding of a preemie.
These losses are fully palpable, and my response to thinking about the babies that didn’t get the love and fanfare my girl B has gotten makes me feel like I’ll forever mourn them, like maybe I’m choosing to forever mourn them - because mourning them keeps their memory alive and close in my heart. I mean, we have stuffed animals with the babies names, candles, memory boxes, ornaments, stockings - we have brought them into our lives as much as we can as a unit, and B knows of her siblings in heaven, but me - I hold myself to a higher standard, I feel a different need for connection. I was their mother. I AM their mother. And saying their name, lighting candles in their honor, sharing their stories - its something, but it’s not enough. I actually don’t know if anything will be enough given what I’ve seen and felt and lost.
Now that the veil has been lifted (and the endometriosis diagnosis doled out) - the immense pain and heavy cramping of my monthly period not only physically feels unbearable physically, but mentally too - the way I lost each baby, and most specifically the way I lost Noah, it’ll always feel unfathomable to explain.
Last night I was thinking about his photos. About the medical care that I did and did not get between the two pregnancies I lost. I’ve been almost desperately wondering what it would feel like to not be a loss mom, AND to have a 5 year old, a 3 year old, and a newborn fill our home.
That was my dream.
Today I’m left here wondering, how do you move forward when you still struggle to accept that no matter what you do, no matter how much you try, no matter how hard you work, your dream just can’t become a reality?
