A goodbye letter

My dad’s biggest piece of advice growing up was ‘write a letter’. Seriously – that was his answer for everything. When they cancelled my favorite tv show, he said ‘write a letter’. When things were crazy at work and I felt people were being treated unfairly, he said ‘write a letter’. Whenever I had any complaint about a policy or other issue he said…you guessed it, ‘write a letter’.

So to take my dad’s advice, today I am going to write a letter. It’s actually a goodbye letter. A letter to my unborn baby. My baby b. It’s the only way I know how to separate my emotions from the baby we lost at 10 weeks, whose soul is in heaven, and the baby that we see on the ultrasound. And so, I am writing baby b a letter.

I don’t think it will be the last letter to her. We are halfway through this journey (assuming I go full term, which I probably won’t) and I imagine things will change in the next 20 weeks, just as they did on a weekly basis up to now. But this letter is signifying a turning point. If only in my mind.

This journey has been one of conflicting emotions. Of celebrating a life while at the same time mourning the loss of a life. Of looking forward to seeing growth in baby a while at the same time holding my breath for lack of growth in baby b. Of being both excited and anxious. Full of faith and full of doubt.

This letter signifies the beginning of embracing the one emotion that can calm conflicting emotions. Peace. The kind of peace that can only come from God. The kind that comes only from letting go. From acknowledging that He is in control. And I am not. And realizing that that is actually a good thing. I say the beginning because I believe it’s a process. I don’t know how to just give it to God and never take it back. ‘It’ being the emotions, the fear, the doubt, the anxiety. But I think if I do that a little bit each day, and just remain conscious about that desire, then I will get better at it. And God will give that peace. As a covering.

I see it as a blanket. The kind that you swaddle a crying baby in so tightly that they can’t help but be soothed. Be comforted. To the point of calmness that they fall asleep. I remember telling Paul once that I felt bad that every night I would fall asleep while I prayed. He told me that he believed that sometimes God gives us peace in the form of rest. Maybe that’s why when I wake up in the middle of the night with my head spinning with scenarios, I can start to pray and soon I am asleep again. It’s that reminder that I am not carrying these burdens alone.

This letter signifies a change in me. In my heart. In the way I view her, God, and myself in this journey. I see her as my baby. Nothing more, nothing less. I see God as in control. I give up. There is nothing I can do anyways.

And I see myself as a mom.

To Mia. To Summer. To baby b.

I am both strong and weak at the same time.

And that’s ok.

So now, I turn my thoughts to her. To what I want to share with her. What I want her to know. I think this change in my heart means that the term ‘baby b’ no longer encompasses what she means to us. She needs a name. That we can cherish for life.

If I asked my dad how I could tell her that name and all the other things I want her to know, he would say…write a letter.