I still miss you

CW: Miscarriage, pregnancy loss. Written in the form of an open letter. I’ve been flip-flopping on writing this for a while. It’s many of my thoughts if I could speak openly to the baby I miscarried at 23. I still feel guilt at times that talking about my feelings looks like I’m making ‘a mountain from a molehill’ because my pregnancy was a short one. But these are my feelings when I have my moments where I still get upset. So I’m giving myself the freedom to say what’s on my mind (writing I find to be healing when occasion calls for it) and grieve (acceptance doesn’t mean you don’t get upset at times) when those times hit.

Hi there, sweetheart. It’s your mother.

I know you and me didn’t really have much time to get to know each other, but I wanted you to know that I still think of you. You’ve been on my mind a lot recently.

I want you to know that even though you’re not with me and your father right now, I miss you. I’ve accepted that your time was only going to be short, only a few short weeks, but it doesn’t stop me missing you.

Truth be told, when I found out you were there in my tummy, I didn’t feel like I was ready to be a Mum. In fact, I was actually quite scared. Not of you, but of the thought I couldn’t provide the best possible life for you. I was in a lot of pain at the time, and like most people right now, don’t have a lot of money. But one thing was for certain. The second I knew you were there, I’ve never loved anything so much in my life.

I never knew you could love that much, and your Mummy loves a lot! I knew no matter what, I would do anything and everything to look after you and be the best Mummy I could. Granted, I’m a bit squeamish with nappy changes, but I’d get used to it pretty fast.

But when I knew for certain you were there, it was already in motion that you’d be with me not long. It was horrible you leaving, knowing there was nothing that could be done, but I had to accept it. You were only here to say hello. I don’t know if you were sick or something else was wrong. Either way, I really hope you weren’t in any pain, and knew how much I love you.

I still wonder what you’d be like if we got to meet face to face. You’d be almost two now, if you were here. I wonder if you’d look more like me or your Daddy. You’d have loved him, and him you. He may not talk about it much, because it upsets him, but he misses you too, a lot.

I wonder if you’d know your own mind like I did at at that age, or if you’d be mischievous like your Daddy. If you were as stubborn as us both, we’d definitely have our work cut out!

I wonder what it would have been like to have you grow more in my belly. I felt you pretty early on, changing and protruding my tummy from the bottom up, and making me feel really sick at the smell of scrambled eggs. I’ll never forget when you made me shut myself in the bedroom and open the windows as wide as they could on that perishing January night!

I wonder what it’d been like feel you rolling around and feel that first kick. To put your Daddy’s hand on my tummy so he could feel you too. To go through excruciating pain to bring you into the world, only to forget it all when I hear your first cries. I wonder what it’d have been like to hold you in our arms, seeing your father a puddle of love and happy tears as he holds you for the first time, marvelling over your tiny fingers and toes. Seeing your eyes open for the first time and vow deep in our souls that we’d do everything to love and protect you.

That’s one thing you’d never have doubted. Even in the teenage years, when we’d be the bain of your existence and screaming that you hate us because you can’t stay out past midnight, you’d never doubt that you came into a world with parents who loved you.

I like to think you’d think of the times when we read you bedtime stories and your father would play games with you, teaching you to kick a football and play video games. I like to think you’d have good memories of us, and the times we cared for you when you were sick and the times you just needed some Mummy cuddles. Teaching you about the world as best we could and to be a good person. That like your Great-Grandpa says, ‘You’re no better or worse than anyone else.’

I like to think you’re in Heaven, where your Great-Granddad and Great-Nan and their families are, taking good care of you. Just don’t go into the kitchen when Nan’s smoking, OK? She’ll kick you out, because she doesn’t want you breathing in the smoke. But she’ll love you unbelievably and I’m sure you’ll love her too. You might even get to taste her famous spaghetti bolognese and you’ll learn a lot about sports, that’s for sure!

With Granddad, he’ll tell you about his many adventures sailing. He’s quite the adventurer! He might even take you sailing with him and teach you how to be his, no doubt, excellent shipmate. He’ll probably be listening to Beethoven over his vinyl at some point as well. He likes the finer things in life too, so don’t be surprised if he’s living it up somewhere, dressed up to the nines. Or dancing in circles hand in hand with you while he sings ‘Dancing Round the Marigold Bush’, like he did when I was a girl.

When I get older, I might have your brothers and sisters. I want you to know that my showering them with lots of love and kisses doesn’t mean I love you any less, OK? I love all of you equally. Mummy doesn’t have favourites, I need all of you to know that. The only favourites Mummy has is her favourite chocolate, her favourite places to visit, her books and music. And of course, your father!

There’s so much more I want to say, but I’ll leave it there for now. I do have a tendency to go on and on! But I just want you to know that I haven’t forgot about you, and I never will. I just hope that you’re OK, and that Nan and Granddad are looking after you. You be good for them, OK?

I just needed you to know that I do miss you, and most of all, that while you were a surprise and couldn’t stay for long, your Mummy loves you so much.

*Image – Instagram & Pinterest – Photographer unknown.

8 thoughts on “I still miss you

  1. It is so tough to lose a child. This post is a lovely letter to your little one. I think somewhere they are reading it and saying, “My parents would have given me the best life! I would have been so lucky to have them!” Stay well.

    Liked by 1 person

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