Dear Sam,
Dear Sam, Today you would have been a month old. Since you were born (died? Those things basically occurring simultaneously has really made processing both your life and death challenging) I've often pictured my life in two divergent realities: this real one--without you; and another, more pleasant one. One where something horrible didn't happen, and I showed up at the hospital in the wee hours of that morning one month ago today, and they checked me in. But in that reality, they found your heartbeat on the fetal monitor, and everything was perfectly ordinary, and then you were born screaming that evening, 31 or so hours after labor began. In that reality, your dad got to call family members with joyful news after you arrived. In that reality, all I've done for the past month is nurse you and make sure Ellie didn't poke you in the eyes or feed you raisins or anything. I'd be exhausted but blissful; happy to be surrounded by my little family, proud of my two beautiful babies. In that reality, we'd head to the pediatrician today to check your weight, and see how much you've added to the 7lb, 15oz frame you started off with. I'd be proud of myself, as I was with your sister, if your weight gain was more than adequate-- those many hours of nursing paying off in the tangible results of a thriving, growing child. In that reality, I'd put one of those little stickers on your onesie today and take a picture to post on Facebook. I don't know what the sticker would have looked like though. Just a blue and green circle with a "1" on it? Would I have gotten cute and bought the ones that are shaped like little neckties? In that reality, even when I spend so much time imagining what could have been, I can't see the details clearly. I don't know what the sticker would have looked like. I don't know what you would have weighed today. I don't know if you would be colicky, if I would be giving up dairy again to see if it helped, if you would be a good sleeper, if you would hate tummy time. If... if... if.
In our actual reality, where you are just a memory, or maybe an idea, all I can do is wonder. In this reality, we lost you before we met you. Something bad happened, and you died, and we went to the hospital thinking we would say hello but instead we had to say goodbye. That's how all the books we read to your sister explain it. But even when we use these simple, honest terms, we still don't understand. We don't know why fate or oxytocin or whatever triggers the process couldn't have sent me into labor just a couple days earlier, before the cord tethering you to life sustained catastrophic damage. We don't know why this happened to our family. We don't know why this happens to any family. Not knowing is so very hard. What can I even say, sweet boy? The number one refrain your father and I have been hearing is that "there are no words." And there aren't. You deserve to be here with us, crying and cooing, snuggling, getting poked and prodded by your curious older sister and getting sniffed by a slightly contemptuous cat. You deserved life, and comfort, and security, and trust, and we had all of that prepared here at home for you alongside the bassinet you'll never use in the nursery you'll never occupy. Our actual reality is so much bleaker than the mundane fantasy I have where I spend all my time pinned to the couch nursing you. In this reality-- the real one-- where there aren't any words that offer comfort, I fill the silence when I look into your father's sad brown eyes (Would you have had brown eyes? It seems likely. Would they have been like his-- chocolatey and rich and gentle? Or like mine-- glints of gold and green hidden among the brown?) by saying, "I'm sorry," because what else can I say? And I'm sorry to you, too, Sam. I'm sorry to everyone, because your loss was a loss for the whole world. Your grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles and most especially your big sister were eager for your arrival. Perhaps more eager than even your father and I, who took for granted your health and safety after a long and difficult pregnancy and spent most of our anxiety wondering how we'd navigate life with two young children after we brought you home. It never crossed our minds we wouldn't be able to bring you home. I'm sorry that in the one place in the world that should have been the safest and most secure for you, the unthinkable happened. You died on my watch, in my belly. As a mother, my primary responsibilities are to bring my babies into the world and to keep them safe. I don't know if there will ever come a day in my life where I think of you and don't feel like I failed you because I couldn't follow through on those responsibilities. I'm sorry I couldn't bring you across that finish line. You deserved to join us here, and we deserved to have you. Please know that if I could have done anything to change it, to keep you, to bring you home, I would have. I hardly know anything about you, but I do know what I had hoped for you. I hoped you would be healthy and strong. I hoped that from the moment you came into this world you would know a depth of love I can't explain or describe. I hoped you would know the safety and security of a family where you were wanted and cherished. I hoped that you would learn to trust the world as a place of wonder and light. I hoped that you would be a better teether than your older sister was. I hoped you and she would be good friends. Do you remember when she would lift up my shirt and yell at you, "BABY? Do you want any kisses???" And then land a bunch of them around my belly button? I think you guys were off to a pretty good start. I hoped that you and Ellie would be raised together in a world where understanding and empathy were so important that it was always normal to ask someone if they wanted any of your kisses. I hoped to guide you both to be the kind of people that will make the world a better place, even in almost imperceptibly small ways. I'm sorry that we don't have the chance now to raise you and see who you would have become, and how we could have helped shape you to be the kind of man the world needs more of. Now, in my real reality, I just hope that wherever you are, you feel safety, security, and light. I hope you still know how very loved and cherished and wanted you are by your family. I hope your absence will inspire us to make the world a better place, even if only in imperceptibly small ways. And I hope that someday, somehow, I'll get to hold you in my arms again and give you all of the things a mother should give to her baby-- love, and comfort, and life. I love you, my dear sweet Sam. I always have and I always will. Mama