Letters to Carmen: Scared

Hi sweet girl.

I stopped writing. I know. I have mixed feelings about it too. I can’t really explain why. Writer’s block? Maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been scared.

Scared that I’m not doing this whole “grieving” thing right. From the beginning I feel like our grief didn’t look like everyone else’s. The one word I would use to describe my time with you? Joy. Is it okay that it’s not often that I’m sad when I think of you?

Don’t rush to have another baby, “they” say. Yet I was that mom that woke up the morning after I delivered you asking from my hospital bed when could we start trying to get pregnant again. You can’t replace the child you lost, “they” say. But what if I don’t feel like you were lost? What if you’re the daughter we had, we HAVE. It’s a strange paradox that if you were here today, your little sister wouldn’t be. Her life began before your due date. And I couldn’t imagine life without her. But does that mean we’ve replaced you? My heart can’t believe that.

But it’s work. And sometimes that scares me. Somedays, I don’t think of you. Did I just admit that? Maybe I shouldn’t have. A friend once said to me after your funeral, at least the hard part was over. And in a sense it was, but drained of adrenaline and emptied of your presence I now find myself doing the hard work of remembering, remembering you. And selfishly hoping in remembering you I can make the rest of the world remember you too. They didn’t get to hold you. They don’t get to see you skate across a hockey rink like your brother, or practice your pointed ballerina toes like your sister, or show off your new tooth like your newest baby sister. So that makes it my job to remember for everyone.

But what if people don’t get it? What if they think I’m crazy for throwing a grand party every year with a guest list bigger than my wedding’s for a daughter they’ve never met? For writing letters to someone who will never read them here? What if they get bored? Annoyed, even. Like I should be over it by now. Stop making such a big deal. What if they don’t come to the party? What if they stop donating? And yet, I can’t. I can’t let the rest of the world decide how I should love you, remember you, celebrate you. You may be the Lord’s sweet child in Heaven, but until I meet you there, you are my baby girl here on earth.

And so, we press on. We buy 6 pumpkins in October instead of 5. We throw 4 birthday parties each year instead of 3. And even though your dad and I are only 2 people, we will never stop striving to make as big of an impact as we are able to in this world on behalf our 1 baby girl in Heaven.

I promise to stop being scared, Carmen. You are worth so much more than that.

Love,
Your mama.

“I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears.”
Psalm 34:4