baby sister

It's been one year. One year since we lost her.

We got pregnant surprisingly quick afterwards and because of that, I think that the grieving process was somewhat cut short. It wasn't until I was two weeks into holding and staring at the face of our newborn daughter that the "might have beens" started creeping into my thoughts again. I still lay awake some nights thinking about what it would be like to have another daughter. To have her.

Would she have been blue-eyed like my other girls?
What color hair would she have had?
Would she have loved cuddles like Imogen, or have been more independent like Teagan?
What would her name have been? Why didn't we name her?!

We found out that she was a "she" about two weeks after the D&C. DNA testing determined that the cause of miscarriage was Trisomy 22 (a chromosomal defect that is the most common cause of miscarriages in the first trimester). I still remember seeing the words "abnormal female" inked onto the lab results page. My heart sank. A sister.

Even though we became pregnant with another girl soon after, I still think about her and who she might have been on a regular basis. Her picture remains framed on my nightstand; it's from the one and only ultrasound that captured her growing heartbeat. When I was about seven months pregnant with Imogen, Teagan pointed at that picture and said, "that's baby sister." Her excitement was infectious but all I could do was look at Sean with tears in my eyes. It was baby sister, just not the one who ended up joining our family this summer. For the rest of my life, innocent comments like, "will you try for a third?" and "the third will be a boy" will always take my breath away, just a little. In this physical world, I only have two children so of course I will reply politely, without disclosing that I have already had my third baby (her name is Imogen).

I read a blog post this week about how we normalize miscarriage after it happens because it is so common (1 in 5 pregnancies end in this way). I definitely think that I did that, and in a lot of ways it was encouraging and empowering to utilize the experience to connect with others who have gone through similar losses. For me, this perspective seemed like the most healthy way to deal with loss, and although it comes from a completely genuine place in my heart, a hole still remains- I will miss her in that place forever.

A year has passed; life has moved on and I find myself not wanting to be okay with the fact that experiencing a miscarriage is a "normal" thing. It's a super-sad, life-altering thing that happens and any woman who goes through it will remember it. Always. Every little detail. Recalling all of the signs that they had prior to finding out that the baby was lost; remembering the feelings of hope that it might not be a miscarriage; replaying the conversations that they had with loved ones when they shared the news...

I heard once that parenthood is like wearing your heart outside of your chest. I couldn't agree more. Even though there will be challenging times, I am so thankful that I have been blessed to share life with two healthy and happy little girls. For their sake, I hope to continue learning to find a balance between strength and vulnerability, to hold them tight and to cherish every moment that I have with them. Watching them sleep. Reading stories. Painting. Dancing to Frozen songs. Digging in the dirt. Going on hikes. Taking bubble tubbies. Answering the question, "Why?"

It is an honor and a privilege to be their Mom.

One day, when they're older, I will tell them about their other sister and I'll answer any questions that they may have. We will likely grieve together. And we will remember her. Always.

Holding my third baby girl, Imogen Agnes, shortly after she was born.