"Dear Elijah,

I have been wanting to write you this letter, but not sure why or what to write about. It has been five months since I have last written a letter. I have succumbed to the habit of placing the thought of writing letters to you in the back of my mind.

I wish I was more consistent as I was before. If I was, it would have been amazing to see the commitment of writing to you every month, for the rest of my life.

Since I don't know what to write about, I'll start with what today is.

Today is July 25th. Today marks six years and seven months since your daddy and I have decided on embarking this journey called "life together."

"Monthiversaries" used to excite me. It became less exciting when I started counting the months after you died... But after maybe three years of life with your daddy, I didn't care so much about the months. Our yearly anniversaries on Christmas was something I looked forward to even more. But ever since you died, it's not the same anymore.

I think its because two Christmases ago, you would have been celebrating our anniversary with us. Ever since you died, I somewhat dread Christmas. (How ironic am I for talking about Christmas when it is currently summer.) Christmas has always been my favorite holiday - our anniversary made it more special - but since you're gone, Christmas, like every other holiday - sucks.

Only you can return that special feeling on holidays, especially on Christmas. I'm not looking forward to this year's Christmas... or our 7 year anniversary. I know that it is way too early to be saying that, but I know that I would be happier if this Christmas... If this year's Christmas included a baby in my belly.

Sometimes, I wish you were in my belly again. I wish I could rewind time and re-live those moments when your daddy would mumble things to you through my belly and when I would look in the bathroom mirror every day, checking to see if my belly had gotten any bigger.

I wish I knew how hard you would have kicked me and how it looked to see your elbow, hand, or foot, poking through my skin.

Like always, I have been seeing pregnant ladies with their pregnant bellies.

Just yesterday, before I shook hands with a lead supervisor who would interview me for a job, I saw this woman waddling with her huge pregnant belly. I was sitting on a chair, waiting, and she was walking towards me with what I presume is her husband.

I wanted cry so bad. I wanted her to see the sadness in my eyes, but my eyes were too fixated on her huge moon of a belly.

I wished it was me, waddling with you in my belly, in the store with your daddy.

Today also marks another day without you. Another day that I wish I was pregnant. Another day that I ache for a baby. Another day that I wish someone would say your name.

If you were here, every day would be the perfect gift. I wouldn't take a single day for granted if you here.

I wouldn't leave you with grandpa and grandma, just to go on an anniversary date with your daddy. If you were here, our anniversaries would always be a family outing. We would never celebrate anything without you.

But let me tell you what today isn't.

Today isn't a day that we hold you, while we watch Peppa Pig or Curious George. Today isn't a day that we feed you mangoes or bananas. Today isn't a day when we sit and eat together as a family. Today isn't a day that we let you sit on the stool out in the back and breathe the fresh air. Today isn't a day that we clean after you and your messy toys.

Today isn't a day that we get to hear your voice and how loud you can scream and cry. Today isn't a day that we touch your curly or straight hair. Today isn't a day that we teach you new words or repeat your babbles.

Today isn't a day that we do things with you that we do with Jazmine. Today isn't a day that we get to see you play with your cousin.


I wish today was a day that we could enjoy the summer sun at the beach, with you.

I wish words could express how much I miss the excitement of living the rest of my life with you.

Love, Mommy."

* Read the full story about Elijah:

For weeks, I have been tip-toeing on my Instagram feed. My biggest fear is seeing a post about a new pregnancy from someone I know, like old friends or family.

Everyone I knew from middle or high school are now having babies or on their way to having a second child, even a third. It's even stranger to see friends of my old friends having babies, too.

In the case of family, I really hope that the next new member is either gestating inside of me or being pushed out of me, breathing and alive, and held in my arms. It's a real stake to the heart knowing that ever since Elijah had died, there has been three new members on my husband's side of the family.

It feels like God had overlooked my pain and prayers and decided that I didn't deserve my baby. 

However, the more heartbreaking pregnancy announcements aren't from old friends or family, but more so from those who have endured baby loss.

It's crazy, right?

These women who have lost their babies, like how I had lost Elijah, have endured the same pain as I have.

We are part of the same community that grieves the same loss and share the same burdens. We can understand each other better than anyone else could. 

But, when they finally have the courage to announce their pregnancy after loss (after keeping their pregnancies a secret for at least half of the nine months or weeks before the due date), my mind knows that I should be over-the-moon happy for them.

Losing a baby sucks and being pregnant again after loss is a sign of hope to mend some of the broken pieces, in which not being pregnant after loss will always leave broken.

On the other hand, my broken heart drops further down the sinkhole of grief. It's like every time a baby loss mother makes a pregnancy announcement, my hard work of getting through grief, healing my heart, trying to "go with the flow" of life, accepting my loss and God's timing gets blown away by some unexpected wind.

And so, I spend my time after their announcement all frazzled, trying to regather what I could from everything that had flown away, all at the same time, trying to make a decision on commenting "congratulations" or at the least, "liking" their post to show that I am happy for them, while secretly wishing that I hadn't seen their announcement because now my day and night is ruined by the notion that another baby loss mother got to "cross over" to the "pregnancy after loss" group and not me.

It's even crazier that these announcements never ceases to be the first post that shows up on my feed; as if on purpose.

It has been like this for two years now. 

Some of these announcements comes with a polite notice: "trigger warning." It makes the announcements all the more obvious and 10 times out of 10, even though I know it is a "trigger," I was never wrong in guessing that it is indeed, a pregnancy announcement that will have me grieving even harder on a day that I really wasn't hoping or expecting to.

I always end up in the bath, crying, tending to my empty womb, and praying to God. 

Some of them are compassionate and could understand the need to "unfollow" after their announcement.

Most of these announcements always follow that same speech about the fears of another loss and not being able to enjoy the pregnancy. While I know that this is true and valid - pregnancy after loss can be very daunting - I also know that it is because of their fears that they are not able to enjoy the pregnancy.

If it were me, I would be thanking and praying to God every day to protect this baby through whatever happens and give my fears to Him, so that I could enjoy every second of this blessing. 

I have witnessed plenty of these announcements and each one feels like I had lost another "friend" in the baby loss world. It is like the baby loss world is full of wandering souls, seeking other souls to help each other find their way through the darkness, but also waiting for some light (that comes every now and then) to shine a way to the entrance of a bridge and cross over to a world where the possibilities are endless.

Most of us want to get out of the darkness and know that crossing that bridge is a huge leap forward to another path; some of us don't get to cross over that bridge... some of us are made to take a different bridge. I should be happy for those who receive the opportunity to go through that bridge, but the feeling of "not me," of "not seeing" the light to that bridge is...  I don't even know how to describe it or what the word is. I just know that it hurts and feels like being in limbo.

It's hard to cheer them on because it hurts to not be the one who was chosen to cross over that bridge.

Many times, I have sent a loving comment, wished them well with a healthy pregnancy, then "blocked" them.

I know that I should be more supportive...

I drove myself insane, going back to their announcement, re-reading their pregnancy after loss speech and staring at the photo of their bulging bellies or the familiar black and white photo of an ultrasound, all just to set myself up to cry about it. I don't know why I would torture myself by doing this. It is like I am re-living the emotions of "I can't believe this is real" or maybe I am wishing that it was me announcing Elijah's baby brother or sister.

And then, I realized that if I had the opportunity to make my announcement, someone else would be in my place, feeling that same awful way as I had...

Maybe I wouldn't make an announcement after all. Maybe I would write about the whole story after the birth, because I don't want anyone else feeling that same hurt from my joy.

Pregnancy announcements are one of those things that I am still not able to pass by without some sort of pang of hurt and jealousy and then feeling guilt because of feeling that pang of hurt and jealousy, instead of happiness and excitement.

Humility is one of the most admirable and strongest qualities of a person. It's all the more admirable when it's seen and felt in someone who is hurting.

Maybe I'm not the most humble or kind person. Maybe I'm too full of jealousy to be happy for another's success. But to admit that I have tried and failed, even though I am hurting like hell, well, that should count for something.

All I know is, waiting to cross over isn't for the faint-hearted, nor should I feel any guilt for the way I feel about it.

* Read the full story about Elijah:

I am in my aunt's kitchen, sitting on a high chair, eating noodle soup next to my sister. My mom walks by asking, "You have baby yet?" It was loud enough that both of my sisters in the kitchen could hear. She keeps on walking, almost making it to the back door of the kitchen.

I hadn't yet given her my response.

Her question made me pause and my mind searched for an answer. I made this face as if her question was amusing. I jokingly say, "This is my food baby!" 

My belly was packed full of mom's tasty, often missed and craved for cooking.

We laugh.

But inside, I was crying. I wish I could say, "Yes! Matter of fact, I am three months pregnant! Congratulations! You are going to be a grandma for the one-and-a-half time!"

One-and-a-half  because Elijah had died two years ago. My mom wasn't quite yet a grandma the first time. She wasn't ready to be a grandma then, nor has she yet acknowledged Elijah as her grandson.

It is no secret of how babies are made. So why was it hard for me to talk about the one thing that had created the beginnings of Elijah?

Sex is the most natural, intimate, sensual, and sacred connection that bonds two souls through a physical act (my definition). Ironically, in today's world, sex is plastered everywhere, especially on the mainstream.

But sex after stillbirth? 

It's a whole different thing. No one really talks about it. If anyone had wanted to, there is most likely a fear of speaking up because it is rarely heard. Furthermore, sex and infertility is also in its whole other world. Very few openly or publicly share about their struggles and emotional burdens on TTC.

Just like stillbirth itself, I wanted to talk about sex after stillbirth to lessen the stigma around it. To show others that there is nothing to be ashamed of from the confusing roller coaster of emotions surrounding sex after pregnancy and baby loss.

Sex after stillbirth shouldn't be a taboo; it's an experience that could feel emotionally draining.

I have long waited to talk about this topic, since postpartum sex had traumatized me after losing Elijah. After reading one woman's story of her experience on sex after loss, she encouraged me to share mine - fearlessly.

Before we were discharged from the hospital, my doctor had advised us not to start intercourse until after six weeks or at least until my uterus had completely healed after birth.

I remember my doctor saying something like, "when the placenta detaches from the uterine wall, it leaves a 'scar,' which needs to heal after birth." 

After my six week check-up, we were given the green light. I was also told that if we were trying again for another baby, to give it at least another three months because my cycles and my body needed time to regulate itself back to "normal."

Funny how after the stillbirth, my very long and irregular cycles became more regular, it was a new "normal." I had a cycle for every month for 11 months in a row. I was so surprised that shortly after I had finished my postpartum bleeding, that my cycle had already returned. I thought I could easily get pregnant after the first few regular cycles -  I was wrong. Dead wrong.

Two years later and we are still not pregnant. 

Anyhow, after the six week check-up and the green light, my husband was ecstatic. I, on the other hand, was full of anxiety. I remember we tried for a little bit before the six weeks and was already traumatized. It wasn't a good idea.

My husband told me that he had felt something like a scar inside of me.

I read online about how postpartum sex wasn't easy, especially for women. However, I didn't know that postpartum sex after stillbirth was going to be even more difficult.

I don't remember if we had actually tried a few times to reintroduce ourselves before fully diving into postpartum sex, but do remember that we tried an "alternative." That wasn't a good idea either; it was way too much pressure.

I had also felt so much emotional pressure. I wanted to make my husband happy. I wanted for us to go back to normal - whatever that was... I wanted to feel and look normal. I wanted everything to be normal again, especially between us. We had gone through so much after the stillbirth that our routine, way of life, and perceptions about things had greatly changed.

I still remember that night. After several pushes and holding my breath, I couldn't do it. I started crying. My husband was so confused and laid there next me, quietly sighing, then fell asleep. I felt like a huge failure, like I had done something entirely wrong. I felt that the sex was all wrong, not because of him, but because it didn't feel like sex. It didn't feel romantic or intimate, it was utterly and terrifyingly painful.

The pressure felt like contractions, it felt like my uterus was contracting, like I was giving birth again. With that feeling, I saw flashes of myself in the hospital, struggling to breathe through the contractions. I saw myself on the hospital bed, tears flowing from my closed eyes, my body arching, caving itself from the excruciating contractions.

I felt like I was being drilled on my back all over again. 

I didn't want to go through this, again. 

I told my husband through my ugly, unexpected cries that it had felt like contractions. I don't remember if he had comforted me then, just that I had felt so alone with my pain and fear. I knew that he couldn't feel the same pain as I had felt inside of my body. We were both frustrated, but I was more hurt than he was. The sex had cost all of my physical and emotional energy, which at that time I had very little of. The stillbirth had taken everything I had.

I couldn't give my husband the "most natural, intimate, sensual, and sacred connection that bonds two souls through a physical act" and was left with nothing, but tears to shed.

I never told anyone about this and don't think we ever really talked about it afterwards. We just kept trying again, which soon got easier. In a way, postpartum sex felt like a rebirth, of "starting over." But even with the pain easing away, the emotional scar was still there.

Two years had gone by slowly, but the sex seemed to get better, quicker than I thought. After postpartum sex, things went "back to normal," but not entirely.

The breasts are the most tender places after stillbirth, especially when I suspect that I could be pregnant (but actually "pmsing"), or on my period and feeling down in the dumps, upset and disappointed. The breasts used to be something that we both enjoyed. After stillbirth, my breasts became something that wasn't to be held or toyed with, but for one purpose only: to feed my baby.

I have never actually told my husband that I had felt this way. It is because a part of me wants that "normal" interaction and that secure feeling from his touch, yet, it feels almost foolish. The most normal and secure feeling should also come from mothering my son, from feeding him at my breast.

After stillbirth, when my milk came in, I was more excited and surprised, than upset. Before our twenty week scan (before we lost Elijah), we were taking a "class" on breastfeeding. I was amazed at how my breasts were completely normal - I could produce milk! I had an insecurity that I might not be able to supply, but that didn't matter anymore once we had lost Elijah.

There are times during sex that I feel that my husband could only go so far. Sometimes, I want to scream out, "that's for the baby!" But there is no baby.

Sometimes, my husband will place a kiss on my belly and I feel this jerk in my heart. I don't want him kissing me there because there is no baby. Elijah isn't there anymore. The memories of him doing this when I was pregnant is still too soon for me pass through.

Most of the time, sex is the most natural, intimate, sensual, and sacred connection that bonds us. But at the same time, it feels almost pointless.

What is sex if we can't do it to have a baby?

It's frustrating. It's tedious.

It isn't easy.

I have to remind myself that how I feel is okay, that the pain I feel is the depth of my love.

With love,
Must Read: 
* Read the full story about Elijah:

Honestly, I didn't know that July is Bereaved Parents Month. I didn't know until all of sudden, blog posts, news articles, and social media posts about it had started to show up on my feed.

I guess that is what happens when you're in the loss community or in any part of community.

You find out that there are special days and months dedicated to certain parts of your life or life experiences. 

It was also not until we lost Elijah that I had found out about Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day (October 15th), International Bereaved Mother's Day (honored on the Sunday before Mother's Day), and International Bereaved Father's Day (honored on August 26th of this year).

So far, I have posted and shared an ocean of love and pain about Elijah, stillbirth, and life after loss on those special days. But, I was really confused on what to share for Bereaved Parents Month. It seems that I have shared so much and as frequently as I could about my baby loss experience that, well, what more could I say - except that I love and miss Elijah so much that my heart hurts.

I know that we are now almost in the middle of July, but I finally found the perfect thing to share.

Last night, I found myself rereading what I had written for Elijah's story. Of course, it made me cry a few times and took me two days to really focus and read the whole thing. Is it weird that reading my own words could make me cry?

I realized that I had remembered so many details, details that were so important. Yet, these details weren't important because they had meant the world to me, but because these details had made a tragic, but beautiful story.

A tragic, but beautiful story that was all I had left of Elijah. 

Just like the several photos, sonograms, hand and foot prints, and his teddy bear, his story being written out was all I had left and if these things were gone, I had nothing.

I would have nothing to show the world who Elijah was, what had happened to him, and why I love him so much. 

Or, why a huge part of my life feels so empty and why I may cry at random moments of the day or night or why I disappear and hide from the world and don't want to talk to you.

I also realized that I hadn't cherished and treasured Elijah's story in the same way I had of his other things. I didn't keep it safe as I have with his photos (I have hard and soft copies), his memory box (which is full of little things to remember him), the clothes we had bought for him (in another box), his bear (which I sleep with almost every day and sometimes bring on car rides), and so on.

My mind started thinking about possibilities; one of them being that if somehow, Elijah's Story was deleted from my blog or lost. If that had happened, I would be heartbroken! I had spent weeks preparing and editing his story, so that it was as perfect, true, and honest as it could be. I spent days and nights trying to remember every little thing that had happened in the hospital - even though some of those things had haunted me.

I had flashbacks for months and couldn't stop "seeing" pictures in my head about the whole thing. 

I had spent tears gathering moments and memories, so I could piece together a story about how I became a mother and what had happened to my son - who would now be at least one-and-a-half-years-old.

If his written story was gone, piecing it together again wouldn't be exactly the same, because it had taken months to remember what I could.

I realized that I hadn't necessarily done this for the world, but for myself. I wanted to remember everything I could because it was all I had left.

Because Elijah was not here to tell and live his story. 

Because I had wanted his story to live on. Because I didn't want people to forget about him.

Because his story is a part of my life and who I am now.

So, today, I spent another few hours, editing, reorganizing, and remembering. It wasn't to change it or make it any different, but to clear some of the muddied memories of so long ago. My memory is usually pretty good, but sometimes, memories can become clouded by emotions.

As I re-wrote some things (in better words) and placed some memories where they had made more sense (when I first wrote everything, it wasn't in perfect order), I realized how much more valuable Elijah's Story had become.

It is priceless, yet, it is a hidden treasure. And only someone who could see how irreplaceable his story is, could see the same value as I have.

I now have a copy of Elijah's Story on my desktop, in my "important folder" of my email, and my flash drive.

Yet, before I send you to Elijah's Story (if you have not yet read it), please allow the space for bereaved parents to share their story. Whether you personally know them or not, know that their child's story is now all they have left to share with you and the world.

Like all parents, bereaved parents want you to know that a child that is loved is never forgotten.

We share their stories simply because we are theirs.

* Read the full story about Elijah:

I am a tad disappointed that we couldn't make the idea of a baby room "slightly more than just an idea." It turns out that we aren't moving out after all. (Read more on: My Dad Leaves Us A Maybe Baby Room.)

However, I am more disappointed that I am yet again - not pregnant.

I don't know why there is a disappointment, it wasn't like I was going to get pregnant anyway. It wasn't like it was the right time anyway. It wasn't like I had a chance anyway. The past two years after losing Elijah showed me that hope wasn't enough.

I don't mean to sound hopeless - because there was a little hope this month - but I lost, again.

This month is the sixteenth loss. 

Sanda = 0  Infertility After Elijah = 16

Here's why:

In every cycle that I am not pregnant, it feels like I had lost another baby.

In every cycle, there is a potential for a baby. When there isn't one, when all there is left after a month or so of hope is a pool of blood to clean up for 4-7 days and no baby forming or a tiny beating heart inside my womb, that potential baby died.

Those sixteen potential babies died with Elijah, along with all of my dreams to carry, birth, bear a child, and have a family.

If you haven't guessed by now, sixteen is the number of how many cycles I have endured after losing Elijah. Sixteen is the number of how many babies I have hoped for and died. Sixteen is the number of how many times I had hoped that the symptoms weren't premenstrual, but a sign of early pregnancy.

Although it is not the norm to have sixteen babies, I feel like I have lost sixteen babies after Elijah. Throughout those sixteen cycles, no baby had ever chosen or was given to me. It often makes me wonder why, why in every cycle do I have to lose, again. Sometimes, I ask God if I should just stop hoping for it because maybe I wasn't meant to have children (writing and admitting that to myself makes me cry).

That is one of the reasons why I hesitate going to the doctor. 

I don't want to hear from someone else's voice - who knows nothing about how hard I had grieved after losing Elijah and not getting pregnant month after month and years before Elijah - that I could never have children. I don't want to hear that there is something wrong with the one part of my body that should be working just fine. I don't want to hear about the kinds of medications or shots I should take to get pregnant. And I don't want to hear about how much money it takes to make a baby.

Never in my life did I think that man + woman/egg + sperm doesn't always = baby. I never thought that now in my mid-twenties would I be worried about having children in my thirties or at all.

It's overwhelming knowing that there is a huge potential that I could be a childless woman. I don't want to live my whole life grieving over something that my family had absolutely no problem doing. I don't think I could ever accept being barren for life - it's a life sentence!

Before we got pregnant with Elijah, those 3-4 years of not being able to conceive doesn't compare to the pain of not getting pregnant two years after Elijah. I think it's because losing Elijah intensified the need and yearning for a baby; it made those 3-4 years before Elijah seem so irrelevant and incomparable to the depths I am now living in.

Last week, I was watching a video about a woman who had lost her baby and struggled with IVF (In Vitro Fertilization) and suffered miscarriages. My sister overheard the video and asked if I would ever do it.

"Do what?" 

I paused. I knew what she was asking. I asked anyway.

"IVF?"

"Yeah." 

I said, "No." 

She said, "If I wanted to be your surrogate, would you let me?"

I said, "No." 

I had explained to her that I felt that IVF would take away that feeling of God gifting us a baby. I wanted to trust God that He would not forget about my desires, my prayers, and my pain for a child. Plus, I could never afford to do such a procedure, go through it, and come out unsuccessful. The pain is too much to bear; I have already been put through so much heartache.

I didn't explain to her that her being a surrogate would take away my opportunity to carry to term and birth my baby. I wanted to experience the whole nine months... those four months that were taken from me when I was pregnant with Elijah.

From the documentaries and stories I have watched and heard, IVF isn't always successful. Again, the whole concept of egg + sperm doesn't always = baby.

I felt that IVF was personally wrong for me and didn't want to force what God might someday present in the most beautiful and blessed way. As hard as it is, I want to trust God's timing and my journey. Perhaps the story of Abraham and Sarah in the Bible influences the way I feel.

Just last night, I finished a book called A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman.

In the story, Ove's wife, Sonja, was in an accident, in which she was pregnant (in her second/third trimester?) and caused her to lose the baby. Sonja ends up in a wheelchair and could never walk again. The couple never had another baby after that. Ove fights for Sonja's right to work while being disabled and to have an accessible ramp for her wheelchair.

She was a teacher who helped troubled kids to read and write. She later becomes ill and is diagnosed with cancer. But, even with her illness, she still had the will and energy to help these kids until her dying day.

Before she died, Sonja says something to Ove that I have seen and heard in many other stories/movies (both true and fiction). She says something like, "God took my child, but gave me a thousand others." 

She had cared for those kids as if they were her own. She believed in them, even though Ove never saw why she had felt that those kids and her teaching was so important. She felt that these kids needed her love and someone to show them that they could do anything, even if it was just reading and writing.

It made me refer back to the time I was in school last fall for child development. A part of me had  wanted to be a preschool teacher because of losing Elijah. Because I could never witness the gift of his development and growth.

I am now in a different school with a different goal.

And though I have ended my brief path in child development, I am content with that decision. Because going to school to learn child development theories and how to teach and care for young children during one of those days that I had lost another potential baby was a disaster. It didn't motivate me.

The thought of caring for someone else's child, but mine, hurt so bad. I was already doing it at home with Jazmine, Elijah's cousin.

It's exhausting.

I don't know if I am strong enough to be a Sonja. And if God wants me to be, then I don't know... that's a tough one to swallow. Because that would mean that I am making a huge sacrifice, an even bigger one than losing Elijah and so far, sixteen potential babies.

I wish I could say that I could feel sixteen little angel babies surrounding me, but I feel like there are at least three.

One of them Elijah, his sister, and perhaps the twin I had dreamed about before he died.

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

For those of you who do not know or needs reminding, Jazmine is my husband's niece and Elijah's cousin.

My sister-in-law announced her pregnancy a couple months after Elijah had passed and Jazmine was born in February 2017; three months after Elijah's due date in October 2016.

If Elijah was here, he and Jazmine would be three months apart, making Elijah the "older" cousin. 

I have published blog posts about Jazmine here and there, since she had joined the family at a time when my husband and I were tragically hit with stillbirth. (Read more on: Making A Breakthrough: Holding A Baby After Loss and Balancing Aunthood, Grieving Mother, With A Side of Infertility.)

I have also written about Jazmine and my father-in-law and how their relationship influences me.  (Read more on: The Grandfather I Wished He Had.)

Every day that Jazmine is happily greeting everyone in the house, running circles to and fro, gibbering away about who knows what, digging through boxes, drawers, and shelves, being her inquisitive, trouble-mess-making, boisterous self, she brings with her a kind of innocent joy that we all fall in love with, including me.

I had wished that Elijah would bring that same kind of innocent and wondrous energy that makes everyone laugh and smile. It makes me sad knowing that the thought of Elijah makes the family sad, instead of happy, like how Jazmine does it.

If only they could see how much joy Elijah brings, even though he isn't here. 

I don't know if this makes any sense, but yes, thoughts and memories of Elijah does bring me some kind of joy -  not just a sorrowful, gut-wrenching of pitch black emptiness in my heart. It is because I love him that I am happy. It is because the love I have for him is special; it comes from my mother heart. Knowing that I have a mother's heart and that my love for Elijah comes from it makes me happy.

Which is funny because I had just relearned that "joy and sorrow is of the same coin." 

I don't know where I am going with this blog post today, so I'll start off with what inspired me to write. 

It was yesterday.

Jazmine usually goes home in the afternoon, but occasionally sleeps over with grandpa and grandma. Yesterday happens to be one of those days that she had a sleepover.

Her sleeping routine used to be wild and I could remember how she would take very short naps and never wanted to sleep. Now, she takes much longer naps and has more energy to play a lot more. Her parents make her stay up until at least 9 or 10 p.m. after picking her up from grandpa, so that she sleeps longer throughout the night.

It was a little past the time of when her mom picks her up, so my father-in-law told my husband not to let her fall asleep, until 10.

So, in our bedroom, my husband puts on Moana to keep her awake.

I said, "She looks like the baby Moana." 

But with a lot more curly hair.

He said, "Her mom says that Moana is her favorite movie." 

Watching how quiet and concentrated she was on watching the movie was... Adorable? Cute? I'm not sure what the word is, but it makes me giggle and wonder if she could understand the movie.

I could feel her slowly putting the weight of her head on my arm, as she sits in between my legs and sucks on her pacifier. I had hoped that she wouldn't fall asleep; she was soooo quiet.

Since Moana is a children's animation, there's lots of music and singing involved - and Jazmine loves it! It was near the end of the movie that music and singing came on. Jazmine wasn't as still and quiet anymore, I had felt her wanting to get up and dance.

My husband - watching how excited Jazmine was - told me to stand up and move. He told me to dance with her. I stood up, shook my head and said, no. I told him to dance with her. And he did. I watched him holding her and swinging her around and dancing with her. I watched how his movements and the music made Jazmine go crazy with laughter. I watched how the both of them found joy in something as simple as music, and letting loose and being silly.

What really made me smile was how her face had lit up with so much joy, as if she was filled with light herself. She looked as if she was having an exhilarating time, while my husband was in the flow of her innocent giggles of energy.

Every time that I watch my husband in his "uncle mode," I fall more deeply in love with him. He's the kind of uncle who throws kids in the air and spins them around, teaches them things that most people forget, and understands how to "let go" and have fun. His "uncle mode" is comparable to the father I know he would have been.

My husband would have been the fun dad (including the tough lessons and boundaries). Although, he would have been the "funner" parent because I tend to be more uptight about things.

Anyway, later that night when grandpa was trying to put Jazmine to bed, my husband and I was having a late dinner.

We were talking about Jazmine, like how we usually do when Jazmine does something interesting or funny. I mean... it's even interesting how Jazmine has become a part of our daily conversations, as if she was our own. She's become a part of our lives in not just her being a niece/family kind of way, but because we see and bond with her very often at home.

My husband was saying how I didn't want to dance with Jazmine and was being shy. 

True, I didn't want to dance with her. 

True, I was being shy. 

I am NOT a dancer and have terrible hand-eye coordination and singing voice. I guess when you have kids, none of this matters.

But, it was also true that I did want to dance with her and it wasn't true that I was being shy. 

I wanted to dance with her the moment I got off the bed and had Jazmine on my hip, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it, not because I was shy or because I didn't want to, but because I had felt that dancing with her was on a much deeper level, plane, degree? Level of intimacy??

It wasn't that I didn't think Jazmine deserved to dance with me, it was that I couldn't do this with my baby, my toddler, my child.

I told my husband, "No. That's too intimate for me." I was even surprised by my own words and wondered if I had really said that.

I guess he had understood and didn't say anything more, but a flat "Oh." 

But what exactly did I mean by "intimate?" 

Most people use the word intimate to describe a sensual connection or close relationship/connection. I was using the word in connection/bond sense, but more of a mother-child sense.

The truth is: Dancing with a child (that was not mine, but that I had cared for) was a very intimate thing.

The funny thing is: I didn't know that this was one of my boundaries after baby loss, until it was called for.

I made something so simple, so complicated, but realized that this wasn't exactly all me. This was grief. This was the feeling of: some things are just too special to be shared with someone else, even if it was as simple as dancing.

I know that I am not alone in this because my husband sometimes feel the same way.

That "she is not ours," so I am not going to do more than my duty as uncle/aunt. It's not in a selfish way, but more of like in a way that we feel that we could love and care for a niece to a certain extent. The truth in that we are not her parents already makes us feel at a loss... most of the time for me anyway.

Sometimes, I am afraid of loving her so much that I end up loving her more than I do Elijah. Even though that will probably never be true or happen.

So, I play the loving aunt because she needs a loving aunt and because I am happy with being the loving aunt, but will not play the motherly aunt. Dancing - I learned - was motherly aunt stuff that I couldn't do with her.

I couldn't do it because I didn't do it with Elijah.

I love Jazmine and her openness. I love how she quickly learns things and greets us at the door. I love the smiles she brings on everyone's faces. But I can't love her too much, simply because I am not her mother. I can't love her the way I had wanted to love Elijah.

I still think about future art projects and books that I would like to read with her. I think art and reading are fun ways to teach children how to be creative and use their imagination. But I didn't think that dancing would be this hard. I don't know if or when I would be able to dance with her, I'm not even sure if I ever will.

I wonder if Elijah would have had a face like hers, while I danced in front of the T.V., with him in my arms.

With love,


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By Sanda Rathamone

Photo Credit: masterfile.com

My dad moved back to his home country in Cambodia just a week ago. He had told me of how he has lived in the U.S. since he was a young boy because - like my mom and her family from Laos - they were brought to America from refugee camps.

My dad is now fifty-two-years-old.

When I had heard the news of his sudden departure, my heart was crushed and didn't know exactly why. He has mentioned many times that he would go back to live with his wife (my stepmother) and three young children.

He was always proud to show my sister and I the house he had built and his farmland that he calls his "garden."

Every year, he would take a month or two of vacation time to be with his family and celebrate Lao-Thai-Cambodian new years in April. He would always say that it wasn't enough time, he wanted stay longer. He would tell my sister and I to get our passports and visit there, maybe even stay for a month and learn how to speak Khmer and teach children how to speak English.

Over those years, I knew to expect his return home, but didn't think it would be until another five to ten years later. 

He would say, "Maybe ten years I go back." 

Then he would say, "When I go home, you have to take care of yourself."

A part of me had felt that he was threatening to abandon me, another part to prepare for life without him, as if he was dying.

When he left, I wasn't prepared. But then, we all thought, it was time.

It was time that he had lived his life free from being homesick and it was time that my sister and I to fully grow up and take care of ourselves.

Dropping him off at SFO went by quickly and felt as if we were saying goodbye just to see him at home a month later. It hadn't really hit me that he was leaving for good, that this was not another vacation that he had just returned from, a couple months ago.

The second day after he left, I don't know why I felt as if I was grieving another loss. I felt as though I had lost another person I loved. Another "Elijah" in my life was leaving me.

My dad had left once before when I was really young (he wasn't to blame) and his departure felt like that very same day when I was four-years-old, crying after him - except the little crying girl was hiding her pain.

I had mixed feelings of mourning that very same father-daughter loss when I was young and a loss of the rest of my future, like the future I had lost after losing Elijah. 

Never would I experience life with Elijah, and now, my dad from now on. It would now be "hi's and bye's" on the phone or video chats, not that it was any different than before. Growing up without him had caused this awkward distance between us that I could never quite close. (Read more about it on: The Grandfather I Wished He Had.)

That second day after he left I had realize that if we had another baby, we wouldn't be able to announce it to him the same way we did when we were pregnant with Elijah. I could remember how he had looked closely at Elijah's 8-week scan and said that it was so small...

When we were pregnant with Elijah, I had imagined him carrying his first grandchild. I had wondered how it would be like to tell Elijah that my dad was grandpa. Not that all of this matters now, since Elijah had died before I ever had the chance.

Yet, I had hoped that I could do this with a second, if God was willing.  

My dad had not only left my sister and I, but also a two-bedroom place he had rented. One room was my sister's and the other was mine. He didn't like sleeping in a bedroom because he had felt that it was claustrophobic, so his bed was the couch and was perfectly fine with that. I didn't stay in my room as much, since I live with my husband in his parent's home.

Although, my dad wasn't the only one who was planning on leaving. 

My sister is transitioning on moving out, which soon leaves the place open for new tenants. If the landlord, our income, and God was willing (if everything had aligned), my husband and I would be moving in.

For awhile, I wanted to transform my bedroom into a meditation room; a place where I could getaway. I wanted to make it a sacred space to relax and grieve, especially on my worst days.

With hope and excitement, I told my husband, "If we get to move in, I could really turn my room into a meditation room! Or, it could be a game room!" 

He said, "No. Baby room."

I softened a little.

"Oh, you think so?"

"Yeah."

I had lost hope the past month, especially on Elijah's birthday. It's building up again, but I really just want to refuse playing the game of hope and despair. I have had enough of being drunk on hope. Hope that things will change, hope to end the suffering, hope that a negative pregnancy test will turn up positive, hope that I could carry to term, birth a child, and take it home forever and live happily ever after.

That was my dream and it had ended so many times, so much so, that I no longer wanted to believe in it as much as I had before.

When my husband had said those words, I got quiet and starting thinking about how it would look and be like to have a baby room. Living at his parent's home had no room - both in the house and our  minds - to think about an actual space just for a baby.

I started thinking about color schemes, what kind of rugs would match, a dresser, wall decor, a rocking chair, and most of all, the crib. I finally had room to get that wooden, white crib I have always wanted for a baby.

But then, I remembered that we still had a new and unused pack-n-play crib that we had gotten for Elijah, months prior to his twenty-week scan. It is still in its new box, taped up, hidden in the back of our closet - waiting for a baby to sleep in it. (Read more about it on: The Crib In The Closet.)

I don't know if we would ever get one of those cribs that transforms as a child grows; the one that has three or four different kinds of settings that converts into a child's size bed. Those things are definitely designed for long-term use and we would definitely need to get the most out of everything we had. If we did, then the pack-n-play would either be in our bedroom or in the living room.

I don't think I could ever come to terms with selling or giving away the crib...

But anyway, all of these ideas about the baby room are just ideas. It makes me sad, but hopeful, a tiny bit excited, and very much depressed. It's just an idea, floating around above our heads, perhaps waiting to drown in my tears like all of the other ideas I had for Elijah and our life as a family.

If we do happen to rent the place, the "baby room" idea will only be slightly more than just an idea. It will become a hope, a desire, a dream. Because the baby room will only ever happen if God was willing to bless us with a baby to take home.

*Update 7/3/18: Unfortunately, we are NOT moving in.

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