Every year on January 2nd my husband buys two flowers–one each for our angel babies. January 2nd was my due date for both of our angels and this year they would’ve been 8 and 5. Each year, we take the flowers out to our “baby tree”–a magnolia tree we planted in our backyard in honor of our first angel– and lay the flowers under it. Just the two of us, in the dead of winter. We stand side by side and still, after so many years, grieve for our babies. We stand there until our fingers are frozen and then, after one last lingering look, return to the warmth of our home and our family waiting inside.
Many will read this and think I am crazy. After all I have five, healthy, living kids, so why dwell on something that never was. For me, my baby became my child the moment that test stick (and the five others that followed) said “pregnant”. Excitement and joy filled us as we dreaming of holding our little ones in our arms. And in an instant, those dreams were shattered.
Pregnancy loss can be such an isolating event. When a loved one dies–great-aunt, Grandpa Joe..etc– people comfort you. They grieve with you. They reminisce with you. It’s easy to comfort someone who has lost a tangible loved one. But how do you comfort someone who has lost a loved one who wasn’t born; someone who never took their first breath? Most people don’t and that leaves those of us who have a miscarriage or still birth alone in sorrow. Even those who are sympathetic at first, move on quickly. It is easy for them to forget someone who never was. Don’t get me wrong, I get it. I don’t expect people to grieve as I do. I really don’t. No one could have loved my angel babies like I did. But understanding this doesn’t make the tragedy of miscarriage any less sequestering.
My husband’s remembrance of our angels means more to me than he will ever know. The fact that my babies mattered to someone else is comforting. He still grieves and that makes me feel less alone. Thank you, Kevin for remembering our little ones and Happy Angel Day to my babies.