On the day we checked into the hospital, there were hot air balloons outside our window. We got there bright and early, but the doctor was too busy. I was grateful for the the extra time with you. The hot air balloon festival was the two weeks before, and these were the balloons that were left. The ones not ready to leave. I was not ready for you to leave. We talked about how Owen would have loved them. What we thought, but didn’t say was would you have loved them.
You were present in everything, but often unspoken. What do you say when you check into the hospital knowing your baby will die. What do you do when you could wait, but your baby will still die?
It’s been 3 weeks and 2 days since we went to thehospital. 3 weeks since you were born still. So still. I felt you slip out of me and there was no life. We had hoped to have a few moments with you. Everyone warned us it was possible like it was a bad thing. But we hoped. Hoped we could meet you, if only for a moment. Moments were all we ever had. Moments of seeing you alive on the screen. Moments of feeling you kick.
Today was one month since the fateful ultrasound. Tomorrow is one month from the second opinion. The day we knew we would be going to the hospital to say goodbye. In just over a week it will be a month that you have been gone. A month not pregnant. A month without you. How is that possible? How can the world keep turning? I feel like the children in all the books about grief. The ones who don’t understand death. I just want to say “can’t you come back now?”