I also don't remember how the subject was brought up. But I remember my mom saying that she hadn't ever been able to imagine this day. And I, and whoever else I was with, if there was anybody looked at her kind of confused. I couldn't understand that. I inquired if it was because of my brother's health problems throughout life. She said, maybe... no. And then she said something that struck me so that I remember it over ten years later even though I don't remember most of the story (and hopefully she remembers even less or she will deny this ever happening or she will correct me, haha). She told me that she hadn't imagined any of us as adults. Say it was my brother's 25th. I would have been 18 and my other brother would have been 14. This seems right to the conversation, so we will continue with that assumption.
It was brief, in passing. But I remember her telling me that she had never imagined what any of us would be as adults.
Maybe it is in my imagination that she continued to say something along the lines of, "because how could I assume what kind of people you would turn out to be?"
Having experienced what I have, I think it was wise. Even with health and happiness and a wonderful life attached, who are we to assume how our children will compile all of that and turn it into the people they will be?
A year ago, I didn't imagine Carter turning one.
We had all the hope in the world. We had every reason to believe that things would be tough, but why wouldn't they work out? We talked about many things her life might include: what the nursery would look like, cute clothes, ballet lessons, mommy baby swim class. But it was all in passing. It was all silly conversation you make to convince yourself that things might be okay after a doctor breaks your spirit with how hard things are going to be, "best case scenario."
It wasn't a hopeless notion to not start planning her first birthday party when she arrived in the world 14.5 weeks early. It was practical. There were so many bigger things to hope for... to plan... to worry about.
But that doesn't change the fact that she has a "birthday."
On March 6, 2011 a beautiful little girl arrived in this world. She was too small to cry but she whimpered and cooed, and I, even as near death sick as I was, giggled in delight to hear her little baby noises as nurses worked on her across the O.R. from where I was being stitched back together from my c-section. "That's a cute baby." The doctor said. Cute was a different word as 25 week babies are very... different in their beauty from the typical "cute baby." But we, as all parents do, saw her perfectness.
But her struggle was short and ended quickly.
So on March 6, 2012... there will be no balloons. There are no presents to be wrapped. There is no cake to be baked.
March 6 will be just another day. And after months of thinking that the grief was getting easier, this is the hardest thing to acknowledge.
Because it isn't just another day. But I still have to go to work. It just so happens that my boss is coming by. It just so happens that I have a conference call with the owners. It just so happens that some colleges and districts are on spring break so we expect to be busier.
It just so happens that in every other area of life, business has to continue as usual... even though its the one day I wish that time could stop... or fast forward... or just... not be. My mother in law suggested we have February 29 every year in order to not have March 6. This seems genius. GENIUS. But then I have that moment of remembering that I am not the only one. And if we erased a day for every child that died prematurely, we would have ceased to have a life LONG ago.
So instead, we will just keep on...
Happy Birthday Carter. You are missed. But more importantly, you are LOVED.
Happy Birthday darling Carter. You are love and missed very much.
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