I knew I was pregnant, even though the first few tests were negative. I joked that I was just waiting for Clearblue to get on the same page as me. With or without a positive test, I had no doubt that a little life was rapidly growing inside of me. Sure enough, I got a faint pink line a few days later. I was over the moon.
Another couple days later, that faint pink line had turned dark, and there was no doubting your presence. I caught myself mooning over tiny onesies and wondering if you were a boy or a girl. I couldn’t help but dream about tiny fingers and toes. Or wonder whether you’d look like me or resemble your daddy. I was – no, I am – in love with you.
Then, like the blink of an eye, you were gone. And I was heartbroken. At one point, I questioned whether it was normal to be so upset over a life I’d never even met. But a good friend validated my feelings by saying, “Every life is worth celebrating and mourning.” It couldn’t be more true.
My due date recently came and went. You should be a couple weeks old now. The pain is still here but is different now. In fact, typing this post is the first time I’ve cried in a while. It seems so impersonal to say that I suffered a miscarriage. The reality is, I lost a piece of me. I lost the dreams I had for you and for our family.
I remember reading that you were the size of an apple seed the day that I lost you. It’s incredible to me that such a tiny human being can have such a huge impact on my life. Even though I never got to kiss your chubby cheeks or tickle your tummy, you have left an imprint on my heart that will never be erased.
I will always miss you.