On a cool November evening, I lay alone on my bed reflecting on the events of the day. Today was her birthday. Two years ago today I placed my baby into the arms of another. Two years ago today I freely stepped down as her only mother, and instead, I became her birthmother. Emily is no longer is a baby, but a toddler; and I no longer am only a birthmother, but a mommy to a son, Isaiah.

I remembered a friend of mine, who miscarried, sharing with me her dislike of the comment, "Oh, you can just try again". Try for what? To replace a lost soul? Although, our losses are different, and our grief cannot nor should not be compared, my friend and I share two things in common: Some people will not allow us grieve, and they do not possess an understanding for our need to preserve a place in our hearts for our lost or absent child. I need to remember my daughter just as much as she needs to be remembered.

I roll over in bed and my gaze gently falls on the bassinet next to my bed. My sleeping newly born son occupies it. I can hear his soft breathing quicken as he stirs. The scent of his freshly powered skin smells soft and sweet. He is unaware of my pain, and for that I am grateful.

Emily was so full of life today. Just like a two year old should be. She is held as a treasure from God by her family. I see the love for her in their eyes, and in their smile. Every good thing about them has Emily's name etched upon it. She is the author to their happiness. Emily is where she is supposed to be, and through the haze of my grief, I have peace in that truth.

I was fearful that when I had my son, I wouldn't bond with him. I was afraid I had broken that part of myself; that part of my mothering heart. My fears were laid to rest, however, the moment I saw my son. As he departed from my womb, and left my body, he quickly entered into my heart.

People have told me that Isaiah was a 'replacement child'. Replacing what? My first-born daughter? Do they reason because Emily is not here in my arms, but in the arms of another she needs replacing? They do not know she forever resides in my heart; regardless of whose arms she rests in.

These thoughts run through my head so late in the night. I am comforted by my tears, for they are a sign I am being emotionally resurrected; if only one tear at a time. Suddenly, it all comes back to me. A flash of time surpasses and I have once again relived those last beloved moments with my baby girl in the hospital. I can still hear her cry echoing through my mind; I can still smell her scent, filling my senses; I can still feel the velvet touch of her new skin upon my breast.

Why is it that my arms ache? I hold them across my chest trying to stifle my tears. I just need to hold her, my baby, I need to hold her. Then I remember my son sleeping peacefully next to me. As I peer into his bassinet the thought comes to gather him up and embrace him with the hopes of appeasing the yearning I have succumbed to. To put him in her place; only if for a moment.

No, I will not. She cannot be replaced my him; nor by any children that are yet to come. I will not dishonor my daughter or my son with the belief that one can take the place of the other. I instead lay alone, in my mourning, in remembrance to my daughter. Dearest Emily, no one can ever replace you. I have come to this realization; No matter how many babies you walk out of the hospital with, you never will forget the one you did not.

Irreplaceable Emily.

 

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