Monday, November 3, 2014

The End

Dear Mama,

Hello, stranger.

I know you.

I was you.

Desperately Googling. Scouring the internet. Stumbling upon blogs, just like this one, discussion boards, threads of conversation, medical sites, scientific publications.

Searching for hope. Searching for reassurance that it'll get better. That it'll be OK.

You can't sleep. Or you need to distract yourself from the constant beeping of the monitors, the hiss of oxygen, the miles of tubes that is the NICU. You're mad with grief, missing your baby, wondering why this is all happening to you. Wondering if the fear and the pain and the sorrow will ever, ever end.

Maybe it's a bad prenatal test result. A scary diagnosis. A terrible prognosis. A dying baby. A child lost.

Your life has just fallen into a million sharp pieces and you have no idea how or whether to pick them up again. All you know if you need to DO something. Find something. Feel better.

And maybe you find yourself here.

Today my rainbow turns 6 months old. Today seems like a good day to say goodbye to this blog.

The end.



I began this blog in part because I needed a therapeutic outlet to vent and express my fear and sadness. But it was also begun as a conscious decision to pay it forward. I found such a wealth of knowledge and experience and hope in other mother's blogs. They meant the world to me at a time when it felt like everything was going horribly wrong.

Even when it seemed like our only problem was a heart defect that needed to be repaired, I had this vague notion that someday my experiences might prove useful to another expectant mother, up late, desperately searching for answers.

And so this blog was born.

I don't need it anymore. But you, mama - stranger to me - you might. So I didn't want to leave it without letting you in on the happy ending. I got to the end of too many of those blogs, too many of those threads, only to find there was no ending.

A year ago, I was still too scared, too sad to believe in happy endings.

My rainbow baby boy is 6 months old today. He is the joy of my life. The smiling-est, happiest, most lovable baby that ever was. And I am happy.

It was not long ago, I was sure the world was ending. (It didn't.) That I would never be able to stop crying (I did.) That my heart would never be strong enough to heal, much less love (It was.)

And so I spent so many, many sleepless nights, rooted to my computer. Feeling my baby kick, pumping breastmilk, mourning my daughter, sick with fear for my son. Searching endlessly for the magical words that would make me feel that, against all odds, it would someday be OK. That the scars would heal. That I would find joy in the universe that had let me down with such startling, horrifying abruptness. That life would someday feel normal again.

So here are the words: Life is normal again. The End.

But I can't leave it there entirely, because the other thing this blog has become is an outlet for those yearly letters I will never get to write to Harper. It is for her to have the last word.

Dear Harper bean,

In the whole history of little beans, no bean was loved as you were loved, my Harper bean.

I think about you every day, I frequently wonder how different our life had been had you not died, or if you had not been born with SLOS.

But mostly, when I think about you now, it is with gratitude. 

I've said it before, but it bears repeating: without you, there would be no Soren. There would be no wide gummy smiles, or snuggles against my neck, or moments watching Shea adore and entertain his little brother. 

I will forever be grateful to you, little bean, for the existence of that brother that should never have been. 

Thank you, Harper. 

I promise that Soren and Shea will experience all the things that you will never be able to. They will live and laugh and love and play and travel and enjoy life. And as I experience the world again through them, I will always remember you. 

Even as this blog goes silent, you will never be forgotten. You were here, you existed, and you will be a part of our family forever. 

Harper Merrick, she of the beautiful name, of the broken heart, of the squeaky hiccups. 

A few days ago, I took your brothers to urgent care (Shea had an ear infection), and a nurse asked me if I had any daughters. "Not anymore," I replied. 

She didn't pick up on the allusion to past tense and simply said, "That's too bad, because your sons are beautiful, and a girl who looked like that would be gorgeous."

She's right. The boys are beautiful. And you, Harper bean, were gorgeous. 

I promise that every year I will honor your birthday, and that I will do my best not to lose sight of all of the important lessons you taught all of us whose lives you touched. 

Your six fingered hand will always have a hold on my heart. 

Love, Mommy