Other than that? No one said a word. Not one single person.
....but wait! I'm not a mother, right? FALSE. And if you're reading this, you probably are one too. I may never have had a living child to physically take home with me, but for 8 weeks, I had my child with me everywhere I went. I may not have any children living, but I did once, alive in my belly. I may never have labored and borne a living child, but I did bear my child's remains. (Actually, though it may not have been the labor of a full term birth, there was labor of some kind involved).
From the moment she was conceived and attached to me, she was my child, and I was her mother. When I chose not to have a margarita at dinner with friends for the benefit of my child, I was her mother. When I chose not to have caffeine for the benefit of my child, I was her mother. When I chose to take my prenatal vitamins and eat as well as I could manage for the benefit of my child, I was her mother. She gave me nausea and breasts so sore it often hurt to move or touch them at all. She gave me morning sickness in the form of diarrhea, and made me so unfathomably tired I could hardly do anything. Worst of all, she gave me a significant (and, unfortunately, lasting) increase in chin hairs. And yet, with all of these unpleasant things happening to me because of her, I loved her and cherished her all the more. Because
My poor, sweet baby. I hope you know that you were wanted. You were not, as so many of us were, conceived by some idiot/s who reacted to the news of your existence and imminent arrival with panic and fear. When my home pregnancy test was positive, no one cried. No one panicked. Your very being was intentional. The news that you were in there was cause for great joy for the very first second. You were (are) loved beyond words. Every single moment of your life was filled with my love for you.
There are so many bad things about you not being here. So, so many. I will never see your smile or hear your voice or your laugh. I will never know what you looked like, or who you looked like, or who you took after. I will never get to hold you in my arms. You will never lay in my chair with me and make me read the same book over and over again. You will never be as real to Daddy as you are to me--I will never see that moment on his face when you become real to him, too. (That one is hard.) It is likely that no one will ever feel you were really a baby--really MY baby-- the way that I do, not even your father. I don't care; they are wrong.
I hate that you are gone. I hate it every second of every day. I have hated every single second since about 10:00AM, January 3, 2014. Had you not died, I would be around 27 weeks now. You'd be kicking me, and I would be reading Pride and Prejudice aloud to you.
I would give literally anything to get you back, but since I cannot, I have to take whatever comfort I can from your short life. While it does not make the loss of you any easier, I can rest in the knowledge that you did not suffer. You were never away from me. You were never cold, lonely, hungry, hurt, sick, frustrated or embarrassed.
I can rest in the knowledge that you will never be humiliated, molested, attacked, or mocked.
You will never bite down on a gross hard thing in your hamburger.
You will never get your heart broken.
You will never miss me.
You will never have one of those days where you're super cranky and you're being a ridiculous asshole, and you know you're being a ridiculous asshole, and it makes you feel worse, but you're so cranky you just can't snap yourself out of it, and you're just a guilty, frustrated asshole all day.
You will never feel the sting of a good friend's betrayal.
You will never be scared.
You will never be trapped in an awkward conversation.
You will never scrape your knee.
You will never have one of those weird, tickly boogers that you can't seem to dislodge, so it just sits there and bugs you all day.
You will never worry about money.
You will never be mugged in a dark alley.
Your absence is a great screaming, frozen chasm in the very fabric of my soul. I feel the lack of you with every breath I take. I can't find the words to describe it, but rest assured, my baby-- it is so much more than missing you. I will not ever be the same after having become your mother, and I will not ever be the same after having lost you.
I don't pretend to know what goes on before we're born or after we die, but if you see your siblings around, look out for them. (Death might save you from gross things in your hamburger, but it apparently it can't save you from babysitting.) Wherever you are, I hope you know that your mother loves you.
Happy Mother's day, Internet.