Dear Carmen,
I can’t believe it’s only been a little over a week that you’ve been gone. Sometimes I think I can still feel you kick. I imagine it’s something like when a person loses a limb, and still feels pain in that limb despite its absence. It is so bittersweet to have to say goodbye to you today. A part of me doesn’t want to say goodbye, and another looks forward to holding you in my arms while finally being able to take another step toward closure (though I’m sure that won’t come until after your funeral in 2 weeks).
Last weekend your abuela and grandpa Tom came down to be with your mama. Your abuela took me shopping for a blanket and some clothes for you. You deserve every dignity I can offer you, and I wanted to make sure you had the prettiest things I could find. Your abuela got you a beautiful little gold cross necklace, and we got you a gown and hat and a blanket. Your tia Jennifer altered your gown so it might fit your tiny body a little better, and she embroidered your name and appliqued a cross on your blanket. You never did get to wear the baptismal gown she made from the satin wedding shawl that covered my shoulders when your daddy and I were in Rome on our honeymoon and received our newlywed blessing and met Pope Benedict XVI. But we would have baptized you, given the chance. So I wanted you to have a piece of that, and the cross applique on your blanket is made from the fabric of the same shawl that your baptismal gown is made of, the one your brother wore and any future siblings (God willing) will wear at their baptisms.
The difficulty when we were out shopping for you that day came when the cashier excitedly asked me all about you when we were checking out, though. I’m positive I could hear your abuela and tia Jessica cringe while I gathered my strength and answered her questions with a smile on my face and as much cheer in my voice as I could manage. Though it wasn’t until later that I would make the arrangements with my doctor, it was at that moment that I decided that we would need to induce my labor. My desire to keep you to myself would only continue to cause me emotional pain because to the rest of the world, I’ve been frozen in time at 21 weeks pregnant. And it continued to happen throughout the week. Happy questions from well-meaning strangers and acquaintances who didn’t know about the turmoil behind my sunny demeanor. If nothing else, being strong for you, for your brother, for your daddy, and for the world is what has worn me down the most. I am exhausted to my very bones, to the point where there were times this past week that I wasn’t sure if they would continue to hold me up.
It’s a funny thing, though, the dichotomy of joy and grief in our situation. To know that you are in Heaven with God is the greatest joy that your daddy and I could feel for our children; we hope for the same for your brother someday (a long LONG time from now!). To know that you will never experience the sinfulness and brokenness of this fallen world is an endless supplier of relief and calm. As self-centered as this sounds, I don’t really grieve for you at all because I know who holds you. I grieve for myself and your daddy and all of the things we would have hoped for you here on earth. But that’s only because that’s all we know – I have to believe that, given the choice, one would always pick Heaven. And that is our goal, baby girl. Your daddy said to me this week, “Our purpose in life is to make it to Heaven to spend eternity with God… but now there is a part of me that will do anything in my power to get to Heaven to see Carmen… and there is nothing that will get in my way.” I couldn’t agree more.
I was very particular about how I wanted things at the hospital today, and at times I think your daddy thought I was a little crazy about how meticulously I planned the most frivolous details, like what color headband would hold my hair back, and having you tia Jennifer make me a custom hospital gown (I’m not wearing it yet in the photo). But I have had no control over anything that has happened to us in the past few weeks. That control is in God’s hands alone. So if there are silly, little seemingly unimportant things your mama can control, you better believe I’m going to take the opportunity to do just that. All I can do is go into this with my head held high with as much dignity and grace as possible. Your daddy and I even did everything we would’ve done normally to “prepare”. We received the sacrament of reconciliation and went mass, just like we did before we had your brother. We went on one last date night to celebrate you coming. And we prayed. A lot. 🙂 Your grandpa Tom even brought you a little woodland stuffed animal. Your brother has a fox, and your cousin Alyce has a wolf. You, my special child, you get an owl. I think it suits you perfectly.
Still, today is surely the hardest day of my life. I’ve never found labor and delivery to be a magical or even pleasant experience. To have to endure all of this, without the happy ending… it is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. Yet here I sit, your daddy by my side, waiting for the medication to start working. There is so much to be grateful for, though. For your life, as brief as it was. For the fact that you will never suffer outside of me, physically or otherwise. My heart breaks for the parents and the little girl that my nurse today was telling me about, the little girl is 3 years old, blind, deaf, physically handicapped and has the mental capacity of a 3 month old… complications from the very same virus that took your life. Please watch over that precious child, Carmen, and any other child that struggles with effects of cytomegalovirus. It truly is a devastating infection, and knowing now how true that is, I pray for all the families affected by it.
I will hold you in my arms soon, Carmen Marie. And I will cherish every moment of it.
Love,
Mama
“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” Proverbs 31:25