11 Days into September of 2001, my daughter, just one among thousands, died. All victims of unlucky circumstance – terrorism or Turner’s Syndrome, the end was the same. All beloved. All gone into the space between one breath and the next.
10 Fingers adorned each perfect hand, 10 tiny toes covered with ink from being imprinted on the birth certificate which oddly we received months after we got her death certificate in the mail. But the opposition felt fitting — her death had always overshadowed her life, even when she was alive. “We found a heart beat but there’s something else you should know,” the ultrasound tech had mumbled before handing me the phone with my doctor already weeping on the other end.
9 More ultrasounds we had, each time hoping for a miracle. 9 months to carry a baby, when it works properly. And 9 months to carry a baby, even when it doesn’t. There are many things modern medicine can fix. But many more that it can’t.
8 Months I let her nursery sit, half finished. Half waiting. Half mourning. Until her brother came and filled it with life. Even then I kept the mint green changing table I’d hand painted with pink roses for her. He could make this one concession for her.
7 Items that sit on her memory shelf: A pair of knit booties, a teddy bear with wings (well only one wing now since her brothers got to it), three angel statuettes, a memorial candle and the program from her funeral. I didn’t speak at it. My sister made me laugh during it. It was terribly inappropriate. It was perfect.
6 Innings we sat through in a Seattle Mariner’s game before I couldn’t take it anymore and had to leave. We were sitting with distant friends who did not know about our dying baby, would not know of her death, could not know that when the home run cannon exploded and she jumped inside me was the last time I ever felt her move.
5 Months it took for my breast milk to dry up. My body wouldn’t give up on her long after her own body had given out, a warm reminder of the brutal optimism of life and the elegant wastefulness of death.
4 Times I have dreamed of her and remembered it after I awoke.
3 X chromosomes in a body designed to only have two.
2 Hours (or was it 2 minutes?) we spent with her. 2 Parents left with empty arms.
2 Towers fell taking 2,602 souls to join her.
1 Impossibly small ceramic box filled with 1 tablespoon of ashes – did you know that is all a baby makes?
1 Impossibly huge monument to the worst terrorist attack on American soil – yet still not big enough to contain all the tablespoons of ashes that soared through the air that day.
1 Day a year I have permission to sit here and cry for her.
1 Day a year we have permission to all cry together.
0 Times she’s met her siblings. Eaten ice cream. Looked for fireflies. Grown out of her shoes. Fell asleep on her daddy’s shoulder.
0 The clock stops. We didn’t know we were holding our breath; we all inhale. It’s tomorrow.
What a beautiful post, Charlotte xx
I am so sorry for your loss.
Thank you for sharing this painful, sacred and heartbreaking time with us. Hug to you and your husband.
((Hugs))
You have a way with words, Sweetie! Sitting here with tears rolling down my face and a lump in my throat, and sending you many hugs ((((HUGS))))
That was beautiful, thank you. I also delivered a little girl who had died, and I love, and hurt, to remember her still.
Beautiful and heartbreaking. I don’t know what else to say — I almost didn’t comment. But I wanted to acknowledge the post and what was behind it.
Hugs.
I’m so so sorry. What a lovely tribute to her.
Just beautiful. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Oh, Charlotte…I just teared up.
Each year your tribute is more and more poignant. Thank you for putting words to the hurt each parent with empty arms feels.
I am so sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing this and your strength with your readers.
I love you. I love that you have shared her with us. Thank you….
This is a beautiful post. Thank you, Charlotte!
Thank you for sharing this. I am so sorry your little girl didn’t make it. My brother and his wife lost their sweet boy the day before he was due. The same day my boy turned 1 week old. He was a perfect boy and there was no real reason for his death. My son is a constant reminder of what they should be holding and having right now. Reading others talk about losing a child helps me understand more of what they are going through and how hard it is. I grieve for him everyday, but know it is so much harder for them. Thank you again for sharing.
Thank you for sharing your story.
Thank you for sharing. My heart breaks for your loss.
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
Charlotte, I love that you can write your feelings so openly and beautifully.
Thank you for helping us understand this, even a little bit…
Thinking of you and your family. Sending you love.
Such a beautiful post. Thank you for sharing.
Thinking of you today (as I’m reading this late…) and sending so much love <3
Hi. I never comment and just started reading your blog a few months ago. Your precious baby girl was so eloquently remembered and so deeply blessed to have you to hold her the nine months that she lived inside of you. So deeply sorry that you lost her, and so grateful that your son could fill that room with love.
I have nothing original to say. Just wanted to add that your post was truly touching and beautiful in many ways. God bless.
ONE TABLESPOON? I know that I was so surprised at how small the plastic box was that held Kelli’s ashes. I had no idea that it held so little! Feeling tght throated and sad with you. Hugs!
Beautiful Charlotte. Thanks for sharing.
So beautiful. From every mama who has buried a baby, thank you for saying it so beautifully.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
So sorry. Beautiful post it made me cry. No mumma should have to bury a baby. Xxxxxx
Thank you for sharing, Charlotte. Sending love. xo
Charlotte, my dear. This is so lovely and moved me to tears of loss, love, and gratitude. Thank you for sharing so much. My heart goes out to you. xoxo
HUGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Charlotte,
You are a blessing because you share your heart…..oh so transparent, not everyone can do that. Please “Keep writing” as it aids your healing but lets us pray you through.
Now on 9/11 we all have another family to remember. You’ve touched our hearts forever.
What a gift you are! Thanks for being so real!
JEA
That was a beautiful tribute to your baby. Thanks for sharing it with us.
What a beautiful, heartbreaking post.
Charlotte that was tragic yet beautiful. We love, we lose, we laugh, we cry. God bless.
What a beautiful, heart-breaking post. I am sorry for your loss, for everyone’s loss on that day. Thank you for sharing your feelings.
My Elizabeth Faith would have been 16 this upcoming November. You never forget.
Charlotte, I am so happy that you share this, even though I know it must be painful. Thank you for this post.
This is a beautiful post. You capture the unique pain of loss in words so well and I know we are all grateful for the chance to share in your honest and heartbreaking story even if only for a day.
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Speechless……..
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