A letter to the son I never knew

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Dear Samuel,

Sometimes things do not go well. You and Dad and I know this of course, but your sisters don’t. One day I will have to tell them.

It is difficult to believe it has been five years since you died. I thought I would feel like myself again, after six months. It was more like two years, and even after that things were touch and go. I was in a state of disbelief for some time. It still amazes me that the day of your birth began as a nondescript Tuesday. By lunchtime, Dad and I had become those unlucky people, to whom bad things happen for no reason.

Looking back on it, both Dad and I agree we should have sold the house, with the nursery decorated for the nice baby boy we were going to have. But we didn’t. We were too paralyzed to do much of anything. We eventually did move. Does it sound glib to say I walked out the door without a backward glance?

Of course, it’s never a good time to lose a baby, but it seems especially bad in the 21st century, in a first world country. Most folks these don’t expect a healthy baby to die. They don’t suspect that unbearable suffering is lurking around the corner. At the time, I never knew anyone who lost a child in this way. I do now. 

When I was pregnant with you, a good friend had a miscarriage.  I worried for her and breathed a sigh of relief for myself. It doesn’t speak well of me, but I seethed with jealousy and wished I was her when she had a healthy daughter one year later. I sent a baby gift but didn’t attend the shower. I have since had two miscarriages myself, trust me—it’s not the level of pain I felt at losing you.

 People say you never recover after the death of a child. Those people are wrong. Of course, you don’t ‘recover’ in the sense that you’ll never, ever stop wondering who that lost child would have been. There is heartbreak. But there is also resilience. There is acceptance. There is even gratitude for what we do have—a double amputee might feel thankful they aren’t a quadruple amputee.

Dad and I still crack up about some of the, horrible laugh-or-cry comments we received when you died. 

“Have stores been good about returning the baby items you don’t need?” One woman asked.

A return policy for outliving your child?

I don’t think about you as much as I used to, or as much as I thought I would. I feel badly at this, but I think you can understand. The dead have everything taken care of for them, because they are dead.

Your memory isn’t an agony to me the way it once was. But your birthday always feels very sad to me. I need a game plan to get through the day.

Your dad and I grew in our relationship in ways I didn’t know were possible. But that growth came excruciatingly and at great cost. If I could tell you only one thing about the life we built after you were gone: it’s this: we are a very happy family. But we wish you were here, too.

Arrah Massimini is a teacher living in Kansas with her husband Joe, and her daughters Claire and Hannah. Arrah writes for the Independent Women's Forum, a Washington D.C. based think tank, and has also contributed to Still Standing Magazine.