A year ago today, as 2015 began, I delivered our son dead at twenty-five weeks. It was my first pregnancy, and if it hadn't been, I think I would have known sooner that something was very wrong, but when you have nothing "normal" to compare your pregnancy to, you don't know what's abnormal.
People tell you that it'll get easier, losing your child, and when they say it you want to slap them in the face. The pain of losing your lifelong dream is crippling. You wish most of all that he'd been able to take that first gulp of air between the earth and sky, but at whatever stage you had lost him, you'd wish the next stage for him. They're right, in the end. You feel bad for letting the blow soften over time, but it does. You cry less and less. One day, you don't cry at all.
He's safe. Our son is safe. He's even alive, waiting for us in heaven. I'm glad we got to love him while I carried him. I'm glad we get to love him still. I still cry for him. We have another baby now: a daughter. I know how blessed we are to have a healthy, breathing baby, and she does fill my arms in a way I admit to needing. BUT she doesn't replace him. She isn't our son. She isn't Christian Vir.
We miss you, Christian. We still miss you.