It's the 8th of February today. The day they said you'd be born. Yet you aren't here and I'm left feeling empty.. but at the same time, comforted. Comforted because you didn't have to grow up in this big messed up world or experience the disappointments or loss the rest of us have had to endure. Today - instead of giving birth to you, I sit beside your grave and think of everything that today could have been. Should have been.
I still remember the numbness I felt when they told me I was pregnant with you. 25yrs old, unmarried and Bishop's daughter. An incredible surge of fear washed over me. Then I thought of people. The gossip. The shame, embarrassment and hurt my family were about to endure - all because of my idiocy. Those were my very first thoughts when I learnt of your existence. How bittersweet hindsight can be. Every day I want to relive that moment again - so I could be happy and excited, instead of selfishly thinking of myself and every other person whos ill-opinions ultimately, did not matter. You mattered. The fact that you existed inside of me was something to be rejoiced. From day one, your dad was excited for you. For us. Our very own little family. I wish you stayed around to get to know him. He is the craziest most over-protective person I have ever met, but he wears his heart on his sleeve when it comes to you and me. You would've been so proud of him! Not once was he angry or regretful. His love for you overcame everything else. How I wish I had his faith. I was a mess. I didn't know what to feel. Happy that you were here? Or disappointed that I'd become another "pregnant-before-marriage" statistic?
As the months went on, our families found out. Anger first, then acceptance. And yet, I still didn't know what to feel. But then something amazing happened. You moved around and began to kick inside my belly. I fell in love with you from that moment on. Through all the doctors appointments, the bouts of morning sickness and random cravings, I knew it was going to be worth it. I knew that you would undoubtedly be the reason for my existence. Everything was going well, and through every scan, I got to see you grow healthier and happier. Happier? Were you happy while I carried you? I hope so. It's something I think of every day. Did I do something wrong? Sit, stand or move around in a way that upset you? Is that why you left me? Lord knows I ate enough McDonalds to keep us both content. Nor was I ever a fan of tomatoes, yet I found myself munching on them like apples throughout our pregnancy.
Our families disagreed on practically everything and it made living at home stressful. Parents planning a rushed wedding, and constant lectures about "cleansing ourselves before the Lord" - and then resentment because your father and I wanted to focus on you first. To make things easier for when you got here, your dad and I moved out. We got our own place for you to settle in nicely. A house we made a home, especially for you. We had planned the best life for you. A life where you would want of nothing. A life full of love, laughter and guidance. We couldn't wait for you to get here. Everything we did, you were considered. Even the furniture we shopped for, you were thought of. "Maybe not a light coloured couch because baby might draw on it when he/she gets older". "Don't get tables with sharp edges in case baby bumps his/her head on the side". "Those lamps are too big, what if baby tugs on them and it falls on top of him/her?". You see, we still didn't know if you were a girl or a boy yet. The week you left us, was when we were going to find out. All this planning and excitement, but God had other plans.
I was at work when something horrible went wrong. That Wednesday was the beginning of the worst week of my life. As the Ambulance rushed me to the nearest hospital, I felt fearful. Held ridiculously onto Hope. And prayed. I prayed for mercy. For forgiveness. For a chance. I prayed because even though we went about bringing you into the world, the wrong way - I made a covenant to make things right so long as I got to keep you. The doctors told me my waters had broken, and that even though you were fine - the fluid was leaking from my placenta and you didn't have much room to grow or be comfortable in. They did endless urine and blood tests. Countless scans. And still I prayed for you. Your dad refused to leave my side. Even when visiting hours were over, and they told him he couldn't stay. The nurses went to get security and he hid under my hospital bed until they were convinced he had left. Your dad then slept on the floor next to us for 3 nights. He never left us, and stayed in the same clothes, until we were finally allowed home 4 days later. We prayed for you so hard those last few days. We held on for as long as we could, but it wasn't good enough. Then a doctor came and spoke to us. She gave us the choice of giving birth then and there, knowing full well it was too early for you to survive. Or to wait, get an infection which meant you would get hurt, and then they would have to remove my entire womb. The hatred I felt for that doctor was intense. Who was she to come and give me the worst possible options? I did nothing to her! I didn't even know her! She might as well have told me to stop living. I begged and pleaded with your dad to get us out of there. Just to take me home, where we'd wake up and everything would be okay again. That you'll be okay. See, your dad is stronger, and a lot more faithful than I am. He decided we had to give birth there… we prayed some more, and then we were wheeled to the birthing suite where they induced me. After a few painstaking hours in labour, out you came. A perfect, beautiful baby boy. We knew now that you were a boy, because the first thing your silly dad did, was open your legs and jump for joy. He was hoping for a boy. There you were - so tiny, yet so perfect. The midwife said you wouldn't be alive, so she was shocked when she saw that you were there! You defied all odds, just so we could spend a few moments with you. We saw your grumpy frown, turn into a huge smile and could see your chest rise and your heart beating frantically. Your dad held onto you and yelled for you to fight. Not to give up. You lasted a whole 20 minutes with us that morning. And then you left.
20 minutes is nothing compared to all the years other mothers get to raise their children - but it was more than enough for us to fall completely and totally in love with you. You took my heart, my drive to live, my joy and happiness with you, the day you left. So today, as I think of everything it could've been, should I have had the honour of raising you. I'm tormented with memories that will never be. I'll never get to see you take your first step. Or teach you your first word. I will never get the chance to toilet train you, or get your first hair cut. All the things some mothers take for granted are the things I would give my life for. The chance to raise you. I take my grievances up with God sometimes. I struggle knowing that he would dangle this precious blessing in front of me, only to snatch it away again. I think of people who abandon their kids. Abuse and mistreat them, then I wonder why they get to have children and I wasn't able to keep my firstborn? Either God has a wicked sense of humour, or He has a plan for us and all I need to do is trust in Him. I know these things happen and are designed to make us stronger. I just pray He is merciful enough to grant me the privilege of raising you someday. As I yearn for you today - I want you to know that even though you're not physically here with me. The memory of you lives within me forever, even if no one else will remember. The depths of my heart will always be your home.
