Dear Jude and Quinton,
Last night daddy and I attended a special ceremony held at the hospital we delivered you boys at. It was the last place I held your little bodies in my arms.
The hospital holds so many memories there, all jumbled up together. This hospital is the same place that your big brother was born. We have joyous memories of his birth at this institution. Now, we have all of the emotions of pain, loss, heartbreak, yet simultaneously, we have joy and unconditional love all converging in this one place. We are one week today from your due date.
This ceremony was put on by the hospital through the social workers of the organization. It is such a kind, thoughtful and beautiful event they hold for those of us in this "exclusive club" as one parent put it, "a club that none of us asked to be in, but we are in it." We had all been invited there as we had lost our babies either this year or even in the past years. You could look around the room and see all parents, all walks of life, all sharing this burden together. It was so hard to get my body in that door, my anxiety had pretty much paralyzed me all day, but once I was there, I knew I was in the right spot.
As we walked in, the other bereaved parents had placed their babies photos on a table. It was so hard to place yours there as well next to all of the others, yet there was peace in that too.
The evening began by placing your child (s) names on ribbons which adorn a wreath in the hospital. It continues to grow, which is hard to see all the loss, but comforting in some strange way. You are then given ribbons and candles to hold and light at the ceremony. There was music, a harpist, a nurse played a song on her guitar, we all wept, we all wept together. I didn't hold back my tears for anyone.
The parts of the ceremony that held the most significance for me were when we the chaplain called each baby's name and the parents came to the front and lit the candle and placed in the large sand-filled bowl. It was painful and humbling to watch each parent get up and walk to the front. Some balling, some silent, some angry, one mom could not even get out of her seat, she just sat there shaking. There we all were in various stages of grief, trying to make sense of all this.
When they read your names together I cried the entire time, but daddy helped me light your candles together. We were given a rose with a special trinket to remember. Of course, there was a butterfly on it.
I think daddy and I were both moved the most when the parents who felt like they could do it, got in front of the rest of us and spoke. Some read poems. Some just cried and asked why and seemed so lost. Others had perfect speeches about loss and how it has changed them and the hope that they hold onto each day. The final man that stood up, really got daddy's attention. He spoke so eloquently. He told us all that he did not know what it meant to be a man until the day he lost his son, a twin. It had been 4 years for him and it was clear he was still hurting but truly felt changed, for the better.
I was not ready to speak yet boys in front of that room. Someday I will be. But if I had, I would have told you how much I love you with all my being. I would have said, some days I am so sad still that it feels it will never end. Somedays I am happy and at peace. But every day, I am grateful I knew you and that I had the chance to have you, even for a moment.
Love you always,
mommy
