A fellow TTTS mom shared this and I thought it captures the feelings of so many of us who have lost a child before ever got to know them. Whether the loss was of a twin or not, if it was a stillbirth, especially one where death occurred long before delivery then at some point in time we seem to all have felt, and been treated, this way. I know that I have written a few things that capture parts of this but I want to thank Elaine Harrah for putting it all in one place. I hope this might help others to understand why we will never be 'over it' and why the fact that we never go to know our children makes it so very hard.
I hate being asked, "It was so long ago. Why aren't you over it yet?" or "Why are you so upset? After all, you never even met her." You never even met her. And that, my friends, is exactly why I am still devastated to this day. . .
My daughter didn't change the world. She wasn't know for her sweet smile or playful personality. She never got the chance to live. Not many people understand this, but those of us who have lost a child to miscarriage or stillbirth know that this is why we grieve so hard for our lost babies. We never even met them.
...
I never saw my sweet Brielle open her eyes. I never heard her cry or watched her take a breath or felt her heart beat next to mine while we nursed. And that is exactly why I ache for her. I am left with nothing but unanswered questions. Would her eyes be green like Evie's? Would she love puppy dogs or kittens? Would she be sweet and introspective or would she be a mischeivous clown? Would she have loved soccer or ballet? Would she have been a cheerleader or played an instument in the band like her daddy? Would she have been home coming queen or would she have been a goth? Would she have gone to college or traveled the world? Would she have had a big career or settled down to have a family? Would she have been a doctor, a writer, a fitness instructor? I, and my family, will never know the answers to these questions and a million more like them.
And that is the root of my ache. I had my dreams of raising twins slip through my fingers before I'd even fully grasped those dreams. My dreams of matching dresses, double birthday parties, matching carseats, sleepless nights, toddler tantrums times two, all died with her. And I have nothing but questions as I visit her grave, "Who would Brielle Harrah have been?" The ache is the loss of possibilities, of hope and dreams and aspirations. My future and my world and that of my whole little family was changed irreversibly when our girl left for heaven.
So don't ask me why I'm not over it, because I walk around my life every day, knowing that someone, who can never be replaced, is missing. Someone I never even met.
So I have nothing of her to mother but her memory. So that is what I do. I mother her memory and carry an enormous and overwhelming love in my heart that can never be returned with snuggles and kisses and "I love you, mommy." All I can do is this. I can proudly say her name and claim her as mine. As long as I draw breath, she will not be forgotten.
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