Morris,
It's hard to believe it's been almost two years since I've written you. It's harder to believe that it's been almost seven years since I last held you. Time has softened the pain, but this time of year is always so difficult for me.
The few days before your stillbirth are burned into my memory. I remember so many details about what we did in those days, but mostly I recall the heavy anxiety and sense of doom that I just couldn't shake. When February hits each year, I find myself stuck dwelling on these details and reliving the trauma of it all. I google "velamentous cord insertion" (the only answer we have for why you aren't here), hoping to find that there has been some new research in the past year that better explains why it happened and why we didn't know. I repeat frequently to myself, "It wouldn't have made a difference," which is something my midwife Mary told me in the days after your stillbirth when I was consumed by guilt that I had ignored my anxiety that something was wrong and waited too long to come in.
It's also around this time of year that I begin to feel guilt that I haven't done enough to ensure your legacy. Those first few years, we sponsored Operation Over the Rainbow to collect bags for foster children in your memory, and we found lots of meaningful ways to fill our time and remember you. I've watched as women I've come to know have founded non-profits and dedicated their lives to their children's legacy, and I'm in awe and appreciation of their dedication. Yet, I don't feel that same calling. I am at peace with that decision most of the year, but around your birthday there is always guilt. Most of the time though, I believe that my calling in all of this is just to sit others in their pain after a similar loss and to help family and friends when they don't know how to best support their loved ones through the journey.
As I write this, it's not without awareness that another family has their own "February" to live through. This weekend, a young girl in our community lost her life in a tragic situation. I learned this morning that it was the daughter of a high school friend, though we lost touch after high school. I thought back to those high school days this morning, thinking how invincible we were back then and so full of hope for the lives ahead of us. Never in a million years would we have guessed the tragedies that we would face. Our biggest worry was Friday night's football game or the upcoming cheerleading competition. This friend was the flyer, the girl we were always tossing high into the air. I was always amazed at her fearlessness and her confidence that we would catch her. I pray that in the midst of her pain and heartbreak right now, she will trust God to catch her.
I love you. I miss you.
Mom
