Photo Credit: ParentingPants.blogspot.com

On my walk today, I saw something small and white in the grass. I don't know why I was paying any attention to the grass anyway. Maybe it was because I was feeling so glum and my head just naturally angled to the ground.

My head hung low after I had just read a blog about a woman who just recently gave birth to her rainbow baby. I didn't know why I put myself through it...

After that, my mind was on "I just want my baby" mode. 

I don't know why (I really don't know why or what's going on with me today), but I had to get a closer look at that thing in the grass. I took a step closer to this white object, tucked under the grass and realized:

Oh, it's a sock.

A baby's sock. 

Someone's baby's sock. 

Something that Elijah never had the chance to wear. 

All of a sudden, I had this urge to take a picture of it. But I didn't. I didn't want the old lady walking behind me, slowly walking with her walker, to think that I was some weirdo. I didn't want to look stupid.

Yet, the thought of taking a picture of some random baby sock in the grass that some new mommy or daddy probably forgot about or wonder where the heck it went, was stupid. The thought of it was weirdly stupid.

As I kept on walking, I thought about going back and taking a picture of it and not caring what anyone had thought about me. But I didn't. I kept on walking, regretting that I didn't take that stupid picture.

I kept thinking about it. I kept thinking about how tiny, how cute, how adorable, how heartbreaking this one little missing sock had meant, but had nothing and everything to do with me. Moreover, that one little missing sock had nothing and everything to do with Elijah.

I started imagining that the sock was his and all of these scenarios of how it had ended up alone in the grass. 

We were on a blanket on top of the grass and there was Elijah, laying on the blanket with his hands, grabbing onto his feet in the air. He's at that stage where he loves to pull of his socks and suck on his toes. Somehow, he has no socks on and I couldn't find the other pair... 

Or 

I was changing his diaper and gave him one of his socks to play with. Elijah throws his sock away because he doesn't want a diaper change or to play with a sock. He wants to run around and play. The sock flies somewhere into the grass and then a bird tries to take off with it... 

Or

I was walking with Elijah strapped in a baby carrier. Of course, not being able to see his feet, one of his socks falls off... 

Or 

I was pushing Elijah in his stroller and realized that his feet was sticking out and one of them didn't have a sock on... 

I had to stop there because if I just went on and on and on, the subtle tears that were falling from my eyes were going to blind me from my walk and I didn't want anyone to see me wiping away my tears. Not that anyone would notice.

We still have a clear purple box filled with things that we had bought for Elijah on his twenty week scan. Most of it are clothes. For some reason, we didn't get a pack of socks. However, there was a 4 piece set (bodysuit, pants, bib) with a pair of socks. There was a set of a cap and socks and there was a single pack of plush yellow booties. We didn't get him socks! Not that it matters anymore.

When Elijah was born three days after his twenty week scan, his feet were the size of half of my finger, about one-and-a-half inches long. Elijah could have never worn socks anyway -  he couldn't have fit any baby socks! Not that he needed any.

I could remember the softness of the bottoms of his feet, probably softer than a newborn's.

It felt smooth and puffy, kind of like a gummy bear, but softer. It felt like nothing I have ever felt before, so soft that I can't even find the right words to describe it. The closest, but furthest thing I could think to describe the softness of his feet is how my legs would feel after a good shave and ultra-moisturized - but better. 1000x better.

His feet felt like an angel's feet; feet that never touch the ground.  

I wish I knew the sounds of his baby feet, running on top of the hardwood floor. I wish I knew how many socks he's been missing. I wish I knew how precious his feet looks like in little sneaker socks.

I wish I had kissed his tiny, miniature human feet.

Every now and then, I will see things like the missing baby sock laying around. Sometimes, it's a pacifier or a bib, a shoe, even a diaper. Other times, they're bigger pieces sitting at the corner somewhere, like a baby walker, baby swing, a car seat. Whatever it is, it always makes me think about Elijah and how we never had the chance.

Occasionally, I take it as a "sign" that one of these days, our baby will be here.

Recommended Reads: 
* Read the full story about Elijah:

Elijah's second heavenly birthday was on June 16th, just a little more than a week ago. In heaven, he would be two, but today, he would be a year-and-almost-seven-months old.

Elijah's due date was on October 30, 2016. 

The way time works after baby loss is different and confusing. When I say, "two years," it sounds like yesterday. Two years is not enough time to cover all of those nights I cried myself to sleep or the aches and pains from seeing every baby that isn't ours and every pregnant woman that isn't me.

It feels more like it has been ten years/forever, since Elijah had slipped out of me and died. I still wonder if he was indeed alive, briefly after his traumatic birth.

Elijah's second birthday isn't just his second birthday, death day, and an anniversary of the most terrible day of our lives; it is also two years of surviving this very unexpected journey without him.

For me, two years is a milestone in the baby loss world. 

In some ways, I am proud of myself for the "progress" I have made since the first year, for learning the many tough, but worthwhile lessons, and for gaining the wisdom that I have now. In other ways, I am crestfallen; it has been two years since our baby's death, which means two years have gone by without ever experiencing life as parents to a living child, as well as another two years of unexplained infertility.

The second year of baby loss didn't lead us to my most prayed for rainbow baby...

So, to sum up my second year of baby loss, I decided to make a list of the challenges and most important aspects of my experience (that I want the whole world to know):

• It doesn’t get any easier, better, or worse. It doesn’t completely disappear or heal. It becomes something to endure every day. Some days it’s easier and some days it’s harder than others. The only thing left to do is to face it and let it pass, whether that means to keep pushing through it, or to do nothing but rest.

• Some days, I feel like a warrior that can “lift a bus” and defeat every demon. Other days, I feel so dis-empowered that I can’t even lift my head or open my eyes. Confidence and self-esteem can change at any moment. I never know what’s it going to be like tomorrow.

• The older kids are fine, it’s the youngest and littlest ones that hurt the most. The toughest part is their newborn cries, which was never heard on the day he was born.

• Children of every age is a transition or milestone that brings memories of what never was. Like every child that passes by, he should/would be doing and saying these things, too. It is like these memories are stolen.

• Feeling anti-social and not wanting to talk to or see people for a day or two, or even a week, is okay. Being surrounded by people or in a public place could make grief more overwhelming.

• Sharing the loss in a public or outspoken way isn’t “airing out my dirty laundry.” It is a way to express what is being secretly oppressed, depressed, and unexpressed that no one knows the truth. The death and loss of a loved one isn’t a private matter; it affects a lot of people and their daily lives.

• “Before” and “after” are two very simple, but important vocabulary words in my present life. The “before” life is gone and dead when my baby died and the “after” life feels like I died and came back to life, but without a piece of my heart (literally and figuratively).

• I am not as “strong” as people may think I am or even close to being strong. I cry almost every other day and most of the time, I hide my pain. I need hugs like how kids need love.

• I feel anxious when I know that an anniversary date is coming up. It's not just the big days (birthday and due date) that are significant. The day I found out that I was pregnant and sonogram/ultrasound appointments are memorable dates on my "mental calendar." 

• Don’t let my happy, smiley face fool you. I’m still hurting. I’m just trying to get through the day and “be positive.

• Crying in a bath is one of the best ways to grieve. Adding tears to bath water, cleansing the body with it, and then watching it go down the drain is like a detox and a time of release.

• My favorite medicine for a heavy heart is fresh air. Whether from a deep breath, a breath from the park, garden, beach, or forest, fresh air is a fresh start.

• I feel sad even when I’m happy. These two emotions are mixed together. A better word to describe my laughter is that I am actually “sappy” or “haddy.” “Sappy” is when I’m sad, but also happy. “Haddy” is when I’m happy, but also sad. I feel “sappy” and “haddy” almost every day. My emotions are never just one emotion.

• Waking up and going to sleep is exhausting. I wake up every day with the reminder that there is no baby to wake up to and I sleep every night with the reminder that there is no baby to sleep with.

• I still sleep with his bear. Like a child, it is the one thing I can't sleep without. 

• I think about him every day. There isn’t a day that I don’t. He’s always in my thoughts and he lives in my heart. It’s like he’s imprinted on my soul and has become a part of me. I can never forget about him and there is no such thing as “taking a break” from thinking about him. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been; it hurts everyday and forever.

Among the first frantic and nerve-racking thoughts after finding out we were expecting, both of  us worried about telling his parents.

We were nervous and afraid about what they would think and say... 

We were living in his parent's home and struggled with finances to move into our own place (we still are). Bringing a new baby into the household would take up more space. Moreover, we barely had enough space in our bedroom for another person (mostly because of our king sized bed).

We kept pushing off the day that we would announce their newest grandchild-to-be.

I remember that we would go back and forth about how his parents would react. Maybe his mom would be more excited? She did want another grandchild; it has been a long while since the youngest grandchild was born. No, maybe his dad would be even more excited? We knew that he had loved kids. Or, maybe they would be disappointed because we could barely even care for ourselves and haven't yet moved out.

We waited until I was about 14-15 weeks along, the day before Mother's Day (2016), which was the day we were officially announcing to everyone (we haven't yet told). Instead of telling his parents together, we announced the pregnancy separately.

I think my husband was at work that day, but remember that I was in the kitchen prepping something. My mother-in-law came by and stood close, watching me, giving me tips. Since she was here, I thought that this was the perfect moment.

With a breath of courage, I told her, "I have baby." She doesn't speak English very well and so I tried to tell her in a way that I thought was simple to understand. She looked at me, confused.

"Huh?"

So, I made hand gestures to my belly. I made a half-circular motion over my stomach and said, "baby." 

She started giggling. By the look of her face, she was still confused and wasn't exactly catching on to what I was trying to communicate.

I said, "wait," and went into our bedroom to quickly grab the 5, 8, and 13 week sonograms of our baby. I took a breath and walked back and handed her the sonograms.

She squinted and pulled out her glasses.

As she took her time to examine each one, I said and gestured to my belly again, "Baby. In here. I have baby."

Her face lit up, realizing what I was saying, "Ohhhhhh! You have baby!"

I asked her if she was okay with this and nodded at the same time. 

"Okay."

And then she got serious.

She said, "Don't use scissor in room. Don't move bed." 

Of course, the superstitions. 

After telling her about the baby, I wasn't sure if she was happy or disappointed or excited, or okay. I had no idea what she was feeling. But, I felt better. Much better, because the anxiety from seeing his parents every day and not telling them was like holding a full bladder. It was a secret that was sooooo hard to keep.

I don't think she told anyone else about it that day because she went back to her sewing as if the day was like any other day.

When my husband got home from work, he had told his dad about it (I texted him that I told his mom). He said that his dad said just about the same thing as his mom.

"Don't use scissors in the room and don't move any of the bedroom furniture."

I didn't follow any of the superstitions. There was another one of "not buying anything for the baby until after the baby is born" that both my own mother and mother-in-law had said.

But I didn't care. 

I could remember how after losing Elijah, my husband would bicker about how I/we didn't listen. That that was why we had lost Elijah.

Oh, how there would be so many damn reasons on "why we lost Elijah." 

~

If you haven't yet read about my story from the very beginning, you wouldn't know about how my sister-in-law announced her pregnancy a couple months after we had lost Elijah. She was about three months pregnant at that time.

You also wouldn't know about how my mother-in-law was the second other person ("second" because my husband didn't grieve as hard I did in the beginning) who took the loss to heart. I remember her crying, hugging me, on the day we had gotten back from the hospital and how she would play the sad, somber, meditative music, while she was sewing - for days (she usually plays it, but it seemed more so after the stillbirth).

When she had heard about her daughter's pregnancy, it seemed as if she had never grieved at all. A part of me had felt abandoned. 

She used to ask if I was pregnant a lot back then. I never took it in offense though, I knew that I had gained weight throughout the years my husband and I have been together and I really did look somewhat pregnant. (I also remember a time when a woman at a Ross parking lot asked us when we were having our baby, when I wasn't pregnant. My gosh I must've looked so fat.)

My mother-in-law still asks if I am pregnant from time-to-time and would occasionally offer tips for conceiving. I think it's sweet, but have a fear that my husband may not want me to get pregnant anyway - that's what makes me sad.

After my sister-in-law had Jazmine, who is now a year-and-four-months-old, it turns out that my father-in-law is "that one person" she loves the most (after her parents, of course).

He is the one who could put Jazmine to sleep (not even my mother-in-law can). He is the one who spends most of his time taking care of her. He is the one who knows and understands Jazmine in ways that the rest of us doesn't. And, he is the person who holds her when her mom drops her off before she leaves to work.

Jazmine has brought so much joy into his life that I have never seen before and it's beautiful. So beautiful that I had wished that I could be in his shoes.

Usually, my father-in-law is the quiet type at home. He tries to busy himself here and there, but most of the time spends his days pondering, lounging, and relaxing. According to my husband, he used to be quite the fisherman, especially when they were younger, but I guess aging has made him less active than he used to be. Unlike my mother-in-law who is very much active and busy every day (my parents are the same way).

But ever since Jazmine joined the family, he's walking a lot more, even running around. He's happier, he looks even lighter, as if he is floating, and the way he laughs with her. It's like Jazmine turns him into a child again and reminded him of how the littlest things are so precious.

The way he holds her, it's all the more sweet and gentle - a side that I didn't know he had.

The way he shows and teaches her things. The way he has cleaned bottles prepared, sitting on his table. The way he hushes her cries. The way he wants the best for her (he buys her organic milk).

He reminds me of the male sea horse, one of my favorite childhood animals. 

And when Jazmine goes home or doesn't visit for the day, he's back to his shell-like self. Back to pondering, lounging, and relaxing. He looks almost sad to be without her that it's touching and profound.

I had realized that the way he is with Jazmine is who he really is. My father-in-law is a very graceful, cheery, and nurturing man, but he doesn't show much of it, unless Jazmine is here. I wish he was always that way and wonder what had made his life so silent.

I was talking with my husband yesterday about both of our dads. I had heard him mutter, "If it was a competition, my dad wins." 

He was right. 

My parents separated when I was really young. I spent most of my childhood raised by my mother and stepfather (who wasn't really into "fathering," but more of working). However, there were times that my sister and I would spend a weekend staying over with our dad.

I remember how much fun we'd had and how important those weekends were. At that time, I was a "daddy's girl" who had loved and cried for her daddy. I remember being so young and making wishes that my parents would get back together (my child heart still does sometimes).

Unfortunately, as we grew older, then moved away, my relationship with my dad wasn't as warm as it used to be and more so distant and awkward. To this day, he takes hugs in the most uncomfortable manner, as if he doesn't know how to hug me - another thing that makes me sad. I still try and hug him anyway, even though his response is always a pat on my head.

I know that my dad loves me, but because of the way things had turned out, the loving affection he had when we were kids disappeared. My dad isn't an emotional guy and it takes a lot to make him angry. He's usually very warm and quiet, like how I am.

But I had wondered why it's so hard to just drape his arms around me and hold me. 

I want him to hold me the way he had used to. I want him to hold me the way my father-in-law holds Jazmine (not hold as in carry like a baby, but hold as in an emotionally, loving way). Patting my head makes me feel like I'm in the third grade again, playing duck-duck-goose. I'm too old for this.

At times, my husband would try to start up conversations about "Elijah and his dad." 

"I wonder if my dad would _____ with Elijah."

"You think my dad would ______ with Elijah?" 

Sometimes, I would try to start one, but usually, the conversations never make it further than the first sentence. Sometimes, I don't want to think or talk about it because it's an emotional trigger.

Seeing this bond of my father-in-law and Jazmine assures me that he is the man who takes the title of "grandpa" to the next level. He is a grandfather who willingly makes great strides to be more than just the grandpa who sits around and watches how life passes him by. He is the grandfather who dives for the hugs, not the pats.

I know that he is the grandfather that I would have wanted for Elijah.

He is the cool grandpa that even I never had.

I would have loved seeing the three of them fishing...

With love,
Recommended Reads: 
* Read the full story about Elijah:

Linea Nigra is a kind of "pregnancy line," and no, I am not talking about the lines on a pregnancy test. It is a pigmented line that some women have during pregnancy.

The name "Linea Nigra" means "black line," but it doesn't necessarily darken to a black line, but more of a light to darker shade of brown. This line runs from the belly button to the pubic bone, but during pregnancy, it can appear and grow as far as to the tops of the rib cage.

Actually, whether we know it or not, some of us already have this line, but it wasn't as noticeable. 

Hence, the other name for this line, "Linea Alba" or "white line."

The cause of linea nigra is unknown, but some say it may be because of the boost of pregnancy hormones, which then causes skin cells, called melanocytes to change the pigmentation of skin color. It may also be the reason why some or most women have a darkening of the areolas during pregnancy, which is also a very common pregnancy symptom. (Sources: AmericanPregnancy.org and MomLovesBest.com)

Some also say that after pregnancy, the line should "disappear," lighten, and/or fade away. 

Now, why am I writing about this and what does this have to do with stillbirth, you say? Well, it is because my linea nigra still hugs onto my skin, as if it has never left.

My line has not faded. 

Like many, I have never really noticed this line. I'm not even sure if I had it before, and if I did, then it was not as dark as it was when I was pregnant with Elijah, as well as today.

I first noticed the line when I was near the end of my first trimester. By my fifth month, the line was dark enough that I had noticed that it was definitely something that was not there before, or at the least it was a very noticeable change that my body was going through in pregnancy.

The line was darkening to my belly button and I worried that it would "move" even higher. 

I remember googling about linea nigra and even though I had read that it was a natural thing, I didn't like the way it looked. I didn't like it in the same way that I didn't like how all of a sudden, pregnancy had made me a hairy monster on my belly. Believe it or not, I had actually started shaving my belly because all of this hair had grown in places that didn't before.

Around my areolas even started growing hair (yes and no, this is and is not TMI), which of course is another natural, but somewhat gross pregnancy symptom.

If I had to choose between stretch marks and linea nigra, I would have chosen stretch marks (even though I would slather cocoa butter and cocoa butter oil on my belly twice a day and any other time I could remember and tried to prevent them, knowing damn well that stretch marks are genetic and my mom had lots of them when she was pregnant.)

But if lotion and oil did anything, then I did what I could. Even if it was stupid. 

I never had any stretch marks on my belly when I was pregnant with Elijah. Perhaps it was because the pregnancy ended abruptly at twenty weeks and I wasn't big enough to reach it that far to earn my "tiger stripes."

I somewhat wished I had stretch marks because then it would be some kind of "proof" that I was a mother? Am a mother?

I was always curious about stretch marks though. My mom would always show me hers and point at the one that I "gave" her. She would say, "this is what you did, right here," in a nice, but very honest tone. I always thought that they looked interesting and almost silvery and shiny, kind of like the way the water looks like when the sun is reflecting it on the sand. It looks like water movement... the water inside of her belly where five of us kids grew and swam around inside of her.

Unlike linea nigra, I couldn't find the beauty in the way I could in stretch marks.

A dark brown line was a dark brown line - nothing more. Or, so I thought. 

The one thing I didn't mention on the blog post about "misreading signs," when I thought I was around 4-5 weeks pregnant, my linea nigra became darker. (Read: "Misreading in the Waiting Womb")

I thought I was crazy, seeing things. But, I asked my husband about it and he said that he saw a difference in color as well.

After Elijah's stillbirth, the line faded under my belly button, but it stayed dark in color, starting from my pant line to the top of my pubic hair line. Ever since that missed miscarriage/whatever it was weeks ago, the line is much darker than it has been before.

Whatever happened to me before I had my recent period is a mystery, but a huge portion of my heart believes that I was pregnant, even for that very brief amount of time.

The line is about the width of half of my fingernail and as long as 2-2.5 inches long. To me, it's pretty thick, the thickness of a fat permanent marker, which then looks like I used it to draw a line from my pubic bone to my abdomen. My linea nigra has been on my mind in the past few weeks or so and it's funny how I could now find the beauty in it now, than when I was pregnant with Elijah.

I hope that this line stays on me forever, because it is the only thing on my body that marks a previous pregnancy. It is the mark that Elijah had left behind and the only thing on my body that I could remember him and how his pregnancy was such a miracle in my life.

My linea nigra is a line of hope, it is a phone line that connects me to him, to communicate with him, a line so thick, yet, so transparent, like a veil from the other side. I now greet this line everyday when I look into the bathroom mirror, as if to say, "Hello, Elijah. I miss you.”

Elijah speaks to me through this line and finally, I am able to embrace it.

With love,
Must Read: 

I have had plenty of dreams about spirit babies. (For more about spirit babies: I wrote about them on: Spiritual Reasons for Infertility and Spirit Babies.)

You are the moon when I am lost
You are the sun when I am cold
You are the stars when I am hopeless

You are the earth when I am grounded
You are the trees when I am breathless
You are the flowers when I am blossoming

You are the birds when I am soaring
You are the butterflies when I am evolving
You are the wings when I am flying

You are the stairs when I am walking
You are the pillars when I am falling
You are the doors when I am searching

You are the walls when I am frightened
You are the windows when I am hiding
You are the roofs when I am safe

You are the beds when I am tired
You are the pillows when I am crying
You are the blankets when I am sleeping

You are the dreams when I am dreaming
You are the hopes when I am hoping
You are the love when I am loving

You are the happiness when I am happy.

Happy 2nd birthday, Elijah.
You are my sunshine.
You are my everything.

Love, mommy.


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By Sanda Rathamone

Mommy and Elijah's Bear Asilomar State Beach Monterey, CA

The beginning of June started off with so much anxiety, mostly because it will be two years since Elijah was born and died.

So much anxiety, that I have decided to take a break from school and life. 

I enrolled into massage school and started the program in late May. Even with so much excitement and hopes for the future - the past, the loss, and the grief were creeping up on me. Two-and-a-half weeks into the program, the waves came crashing and toppled over me.

I couldn't "leave my sh*t at the door" and forget about it. 

My infertility journey really dug into my heart and my body felt weak and useless. I couldn't get up in the mornings; I couldn't focus in class. I had lost my motivation. And knowing that Elijah's birthday was coming up and that I was still not pregnant made me feel so broken. (Read more about it on: Misreading in the Waiting Womb.)

I am planning on resuming/restarting the program in the fall, but planning for Elijah's birthday wasn't as easy as planning for school.

We have been going through financial ups and downs, but it wasn't anything new to us. However, we had doubts on plans for Elijah's birthday. There were times that I was going to decide on doing nothing because I was so down about everything.

The plan, for awhile, was to visit Monterey Bay.

One of the beaches there is where we had started this ash-releasing journey for Elijah. Monterey was also a place that I had felt at home because the water is always so calming, refreshing, and beyond beautiful. We have visited there four, maybe five times in the past two years (since we had lost Elijah).

Unfortunately, traveling and staying a night or two isn't a friendly place for your wallet if you're on a budget. 

We went anyway.

We drove for two hours, stuck in mostly hot weather and heavy traffic, and arrived to a chilly, cloudy Friday afternoon in Monterey. It was like Monterey was behind on making it to summer, but it was nice.

When we had arrived to our room at the resort, the both of us had the same thought, "What now?" 

"What do we do now?" 

We ate some crappy Mountain Mike's pizza and like the last time we stayed there, we had an awesome time in the sauna, swimming pool, and jacuzzi. (Fast forward, it seems that swimming in the "heated" freezing pool under a night sky was the highlight of our trip.)

We haven't laughed so hard for such a long time. It felt really good to just let go and enjoy the present moment. It was like everything else didn't matter anymore, even when we were giggling, shivering, and splashing like little kids in the pool, while the "adults" quietly enjoyed the jacuzzi.

On Saturday, we woke up early.

We set the alarm to 6:51a.m. because that was the time that Elijah was born. 

We woke up to shower and had some more crappy food. The "complimentary" breakfast was... laughable. We certainly felt like kids eating a couple pieces of ego-waffles with syrup and butter.

After checking out, we still didn't know what to do. We hadn't exactly planned everything out. Nothing was really planned except for the room and eating at the Thai restaurant we loved on our very first visit a couple of years ago.

We ended up at Asilomar State Beach, one of the places we visited (on our first stay). And we meditated. We sat on a rocky cliff, put on "Om Mani Padme Hum," closed our eyes, and meditated. We drank in the sight of the water, the waves, the rocks, and the view from high up. It felt refreshing, as if we drank from a natural spring.


We had Elijah's bear with us.

It was enough just being there.

After that, we had sandwiches - from Mundos.

We took our sandwiches and went to Marina Beach, where we had released some of Elijah's ashes. We put up a tent, ate our sandwiches, and watched the beach from inside, as if we were watching the beach in 3D. The view of the water, the sand, and the people looked so animated that we weren't even sure what we were looking at was real!

Although, the best part for me wasn't the beach, it was the "tri-tip" - more like roast beef - sandwich. I went on a vegetarian diet (including fish) for the past three months. My goal to be a long-time vegetarian faltered just last week (I finally had the fried chicken I was craving for). I reveled in my meat sandwich and didn't care about anything else in the world.

It was a glorifying and well-deserved treat for me, but also the only time I would ever do this. I am working on "re-editing" my vegetarian diet.

We had dinner at the Thai restaurant, but it wasn't as impressive as the first time we were there. I guess nothing compares to "the first time."

On the drive home, my husband was already thinking about Father's Day. I could feel the dread in his voice.

We stopped by a favorite bookstore before making the complete drive home, but a part of me just wanted the day to end. I didn't think that Elijah's birthday would feel even more incomplete this year.

Perhaps it was because I had sang "Happy Birthday" to Elijah all alone. I realized how much I had wanted the whole family to celebrate his birth and death. I realized that I had wanted the whole world to light a candle for him and grieve, too.

It has been two years and there is still a silence and uncertainty from both sides of the family about Elijah. I had wish that everyone would gather around us and sing to him. I had wish that everyone would help us carry the weight of losing Elijah.

Slowly, I had to come to terms with that not everyone will remember Elijah's birthday. Not everyone will show up with hugs and kisses.

Not everyone will love him as much as I do.

But from sharing his story, my memories, and the pain, it shows the world that losing a baby does not stop me from being a Mother, not even on the day that he had died at birth.

Happy birthday, Elijah. I love you.



Elijah Rathamone-Saeteurn
Born Thursday, June 16, 2016
6:51 a.m. 9.9 oz and 10 in.
Due October 30, 2016

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