This is a hard one. Not that any of these, any of this, has been easy, but it's hard for me to even start writing this to you without tears streaming down my face.
Babe, I am so sorry I couldn't give you the babies we wanted so desperately. I have never been more sorry than for the fact that there are no physical reminders of the love that you and I shared, that there are no faces I can look into and see your light and mine mixed together. We dreamed of them often, we tried for them hard. We named them and gave them personalities and made our plans for them, Josephine and Thomas, ours until the end.
During the last failed treatment, which we could have never imagined would be the last, I broke down in the office. Do you remember how hard I cried? I cried so hard and so much and so long that you were afraid. I asked you if I you thought I couldn't get pregnant because I wouldn't be a good mother. And that's when you started crying, too. You sat down on the floor with me and you wrapped your arms around me, my head in the cuddling nook of your head and shoulder. We were so close that I could feel your tears merge with mine and our pulses regulate until they were one steady rhythm. You told me it wouldn't be possible for me to not be a good mother. Just like breathing, you said, it would be that natural to me.
You told me that I would be the kind of mother that would sing her babies to sleep. You said I would make up songs that our babies would ask for by name that you would never be able to replicate when it was your turn to put them to bed. You said I would be the best storyteller and would do all the perfect voices. You said I would greet them with a smile every day, even if I was sad or mad or stressed or sick. You said I would be the best snuggler and would always let them stay awake for one more book. You said I would go to all of their games and recitals and be in the front row cheering for them. You said I would always make sure they knew they were loved. You said they would grow up strong and proud that I was their mother.
In all of my sorrow, I couldn't see it. Couldn't see the truth of what you were saying. I could only focus on what I did wrong to make our dream so unreachable. I never thought that it was just bad luck or maybe somehow the universe knew that you wouldn't be here too much longer and knew I couldn't bear to do it alone. I never realized that only a few short months later I would be willing to trade anything just for you, just to have you by my side. Our love would've been enough - more than enough. But there is something I need you to know, wherever you are.
It would have been impossible for you to not be a good father. You would have been the kind of father that made jokes while changing diapers. You would have been the one the kids were waiting for at the front door. You would have been the father that was the best at healing boo-boos. You would have been the father that made pancakes look like dinosaurs and would put an extra snack in their lunches. You would never get upset that there were toys left on the floor or that the bedrooms weren't clean. You would stay in the backyard past dark throwing balls and playing catch and teaching them how to shoot a basketball. You would have the funny jokes. You would coach the team. You would teach them math sooooo patiently after I gave up. You would teach them how to appreciate a good belly laugh.
You would hold their hands. You would give them kisses right on the mouth because they made you just that happy. You would teach him how to be a man and you would teach her how a real man treats a woman. You would let them cry. And when they cried you would sit down on the floor with them and wrap your arms around them. And your tears would merge with theirs. And you still would have the best cuddling nook.
Love,
Amanda
Beautiful
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