Dear Kian,
I’ve had baby fever lately. I am 36 years old, working full-time, raising your twin brother and sister while in grad school, and I keep thinking of holding a baby again. Like your momma doesn’t have a full plate already, right? I’ve been looking at your siblings baby pictures and videos longing for the chance to start that phase again. Longing for the chance to give chaos a beautiful name. The way I gave you your name, Kian Jareth. Did I ever tell you how we came up with your name. Your middle name was the name of the Goblin King in a 80’s movie The Labyrinth. Jareth was played by David Bowie and as a kid I adored him in this role. Your dad thought I was insane, but he let me have it. I found Kian as a Gaelic name meaning “ancient”, “enduring” and “distant”. I thought it was beautiful. I didn’t realize how distant you would become from me. I thought I endured that pain enough and it was over.
I look at the only picture I have of you. You didn’t have visible limbs, just a lumpy little collection of molecules that was lovingly created as the same time as your brother and sister. I feel like I saw the future play out. M and Q would hold my belly and talk to you; not the way that looks sweet and precious, but incredibly awkward and goofy. They would sing weird songs, dance, rub their booty on you (aka my stomach), tell jokes and laugh along side all of your tummy kicks. After you were born, they would have been so protective and annoyed with you as you explored life simultaneously saving you and calling me to help them figure you out. I prayed you would fight with each other, but always make up. You would embody the full rights of the last child, and we would have lovingly obliged.
We didn’t get that Kian. We didn’t get many moments together and now I hold onto these “what could have beens” as my only memories. Instead, I write your name on floating lanterns and watch your name disappear into the night sky. I light candles in your memory and watch them flicker by a window. I stare at my belly, the only home I was able to give you and how it has rested vacant ever since.
I relive the day I sat hiding from my coworkers in the bathroom stalls, crying… suffocating. I was torn. Torn between the gratitude for what I had, and longing for my chance to see your face, to tell you “I love you” and a promise to try my best to protect you. I hope you know all of that is true. I love you. I tried my best to protect you. And while I know you are in a place where nothing will ever hurt you, I feel it was just not within my control to save you here where I want you. I struggle with that daily. Did you know, October 15th(the day before my birthday) is a day to honor children like you? Last year I wrote a post about all of my dreams and wishes for you on that day. Your daddy read it and began to weep heavily. I never saw your dad cry after you died. I stared understanding that the depth of our grief was shared but different. Right then and there I understood how much your dad had been missing you. He had “what could have been” memories too.
My sweet Kian, I know this struggle has made me strive to never take a moment of being a parent for granted. I try my best, but I tell you, I am human and I have bad days. When people talk about grieving a child, it elicits this huge overwhelming reaction that most cannot fathom. People pour out concern, disbelief and empathy. They talk about the unnatural order of grieving a child. Well, here I am, a person who has lost children that were never seen, and it is silent … and it’s deafening. I just got to rely on grace. Grace for my children, grace for your dad, myself….my body that couldn’t hold you…. I’m praying on it kiddo. Until I see you again, I’ll kiss your brother and sister for you.
I love you Kian. I’ll always love you.
Te Amo,
Momma
