Please don’t get me wrong. This is not a sob story, though I have done plenty of that. Sobbing. But I don’t want to mislead you. I am blessed. Beyond measure!
I am blessed with a husband, my Honey, who is the type of man who does the dishes every night and asks, “How can I help?” when I’m frantically trying to accomplish my to-do list. A week after our most recent positive pregnancy test, he brought me home flowers and a card to celebrate our little one’s life. And when we lost him, my Honey held me and let me give our child a name and never asked me to stop grieving or told me that I need to move on.
I have a daughter, too, our little Cupcake, who was a bit of a miracle herself. She’s almost eighteen months old and every day, we play together, we cuddle together, and we laugh together. We also have a dog, a home we own, enough money, enough food, our good health, and a trip to London planned for the fall. It has not been an easy road here, but yes, I am blessed.
And I know many are not so lucky. There are women out there, maybe even some of you who will one day read this, who have not been blessed with motherhood, or who have been unable to bear their own children, or who who have lost a great many more times than I have. And I am so sorry for that. I truly am. But in the midst of grieving and healing, it’s sometimes hard to see beyond the raw pain. It can blind you.
And whether I have only my Cupcake for the rest of my life, or I go on to have five more, there will always be someone missing. Someone who I never held but in the palm of my hand. Someone not at the dinner table or around the Christmas tree. There is someone missing every day of our lives. I call him my Teddy Graham, a nickname I shamelessly stole from someone who posted it on a message board. He is my Teddy, and my baby, and I do so miss him with every breath I take.