happy birthday, Madalyn.

Baby girl...today is your day. It's been one whole year since we met you and said goodbye. We have survived. Sometimes I'm not quite sure how...but...we did.

I will never ever forget how your dad and I talked about who would be godparents and who would take care of you if something ever happened to both of us on the way to our 27 week appointment. We were excited to see you again--never guessing that this would be the last time we saw you.

I will never forget the view of you on the screen when the ultrasound tech started our scan. There was no heart beat strip at the bottom of the screen. The tech immediately stopped and said she had to compare pictures outside with the doctor. I started to cry immediately. I knew in my heart you were gone. Your dad tried to reassure me that it was ok, but he knew, too.

I will never forget the sad look on the doctor's face when he looked at you on the screen. "I am very sorry, but your baby is not alive." Thinking about that moment makes my heart want to stop.

I will never forget the anguish that your dad and I felt after hearing those words. I wanted to not be in that moment so badly. I remember asking your dad, "What do we do now?" over and over while sobbing uncontrollably.

I remember the wheelchair ride over to the birthing center. After walking that hall today, I realize that it really wasn't that far...but that day it felt like miles.

I remember the wonderful nurse we had that day when we got there. She was so very kind and caring and knew exactly what we needed. I so wish she could have been there the whole time. Our families slowly trickled in. Every time a new person came in we told your short story again and sobbed and hugged. I remember feeling almost delirious later in the day after so much crying and I know I was probably just in shock but the doctor came back and we chatted. We asked questions he couldn't answer and offered to do an ultrasound at the bedside if we were ok with that. He did so and took measurements and sadly found out you had probably been gone for a couple weeks.

In some ways that was a good thing to know before you were actually born. But in another way I was so afraid of how you would look and if you would even be in one piece that I didn't hold you right away. I regret that....I also regret not taking you in...not taking in all of you.

Labor was painful, but the most awful pain was the pain of knowing it would all be over in such a short amount of time. I was very scared to push you out because then we would have to start saying goodbye.

I remember your dad saying to me in a drug induced fog that he had this terrible dream and I asked him what about and he sadly said, "we are living it."

I remember the photos Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep took and treasure them...even if it was only 5 photos. I remember how perfect your memorial service was in that birthing suite. How the chaplain and Pastor Doug said such calming words. I wish I could have burned those into my brain. All I remember is, "This is not god's will." Those words comforted me when your cousin died, and in a lot of ways, they still comfort me.

I remember the kindness of the funeral home director. He and his wife had had a baby die themselves, so he understood the awful heartache. I remember all of the kind, sad words texted, called, mailed, facebooked, emailed and said. Even the ones that hurt a little. They still helped. They acknowledged that you existed. You are our first born child, our daughter. Although you are not on earth I think of you constantly and wonder what you would be like today.

Know that I love you so very much and would give anything to have you here. One day we will be reunited, baby girl. One day. In the meantime, please meet me in my dreams and watch over us.

Love you to the moon and back and miss you every moment.

love,
mom and dad