A Letter to my Unborn Child
To my beautiful child. I loved you. Before I knew you existed I knew I loved you. I could feel you.
I am sorry I failed you. Sorry my body couldn’t cope. Sorry that the one thing I was tasked to do, I couldn’t complete. I’m sorry – because I don’t even know why.
I am sorry because I never realised I wanted you so much. Never realised I could love so strong or fall so fast for someone I have never met or held in my arms, or heard cry or laugh. Never realised I could hurt so much and feel such loss over something I never had.
I am sorry you will never feel my arms holding you, feel the security of a mother’s touch, or feel safe in the knowledge that you are loved unconditionally and totally.
I am sorry I failed.
Seven short weeks – that is how long you were with me, and only me. But a lifetime you will remain a part of my life. Seven short week, 49 days. Less than two thousand hours. You existed. You were real. You were here and then you were gone.
I wonder who you would be now? Would you have gotten on with your sisters? Would you have been the strong older brother who protected them or the caring older sister who guided them?
Would you be blonde or dark, blue eyes or brown? What would your laugh sound like? How would it sound to hear you call my name? Your cry? Your giggle? Would you have kept me up all hours of the night screaming as a baby?
Who are you now? Are you watching? Can you see us? Do you catch me during those moments of remembrance when I think of you and who you might have become?
I remember you. The feeling I first felt when I knew you existed. The excitement and hope, the dreams of the future. You were real. You are real.
I lost you. That sounds so careless. I didn’t lose you. It wasn’t my choice. I wasn’t neglectful. I didn’t walk into a shop and leave you in the car. I didn’t walk away from you in a park. I didn’t leave you in the house like a set of keys on on a cafe table, like a mobile phone. I didn’t lose you. You were taken.
The pain is the same as anything that is ‘taken’ from you. You don’t lose a loved one, they are taken from you. That grief is real and recognised. But no. I ‘lost’ you. That’s what they say. So the pain will be less. So you mourn quicker and get on with life more promptly. You ‘get a new one’ of whatever you have ‘lost’ – but I didn’t loose you. You can not be replaced like a mobile phone. The pain is the same as something being ripped away from you. Without your knowledge or consent.
You were here. Then you were not. The pain is real. The scars are deep and ever lasting. I didn’t lose you, you were taken.
You were here, then you were gone. The only problem is that no one knows it but me.