The Sound of Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

 

--"The Sound of Silence," Simon & Garfunkel

I was towel-drying Luc after his bath when he looked up at me and asked, "Where baby?" I stood still and debated for a minute. Usually he asks that question in reference to Thi, followed by his own recollections of where we buried her: "Little Sister sleeping. Near rocks." But instead of bringing on a fresh wave of pain, this time there was hope, a glimmer of excitement so long gone and missed. 

 

I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Luc, do you want to know a secret?" Tung and I had said we wouldn't tell, what with the shadow of a loss putting anxiety in our hearts. "There IS a baby," I said to Luc, "a new one in Mommy's tummy. But we aren't going to tell anyone yet, ok?" Luc smiled from the tickle of my secret in his ear, weighted with the knowledge that he was in on something special, but not yet able to comprehend its meaning.

Dear Baby, that was my favorite memory of you, in the very brief time we had together. It was like when I took that walk around the townhouses near my old company's location while pregnant with Thi, talking to her as I basked in the late-afternoon sun, worries and insecurities temporarily put aside so that I could enjoy the dreams of what could have been. It wasn't long though, dear Baby, when I noticed spotting over a weekend and called my OB to get an early appointment for a scan. 

It seemed a million years to wait during that half-week until my appointment. I took a walk in between work to calm my nerves, my heart pounding, willing time to pass quicker, wanting to know. But deep in my heart, I already did. This pregnancy was different; I didn't feel it. I felt too...normal. Aside from fatigue, I didn't have nausea or bloat. I felt a little full in the mid-section in my pants, but it didn't change as the days passed. I felt guilt over being so anxious over something going wrong that I couldn't bond with this baby. But most of all, I felt empty, like nothing was there.

We saw the gestational sac right away when the OB performed the ultrasound. "I see the...pregnancy," she said cautiously. Not the baby, because in that oval-shaped womb was only a void of darkness. No yolk sac. No fetal pole. Only "some slight matter" of something arrested in development at 5 weeks when I should have been 7.5 weeks, floating around like debris in space--empty, silent. After getting my Quantitative HCG tested three times in the week to follow and seeing the numbers drop, I was diagnosed with a missed miscarriage from a blighted ovum.

I had my D&C surgery on Friday, August 17, 2018 at 12:30PM. That is your birthday, dear Baby. I went to sleep pregnant and woke up no longer so. I have trouble picturing you because I never saw your form, but I will never forget you. Because the forming placenta continues to produce pregnancy hormones that stay in my blood even after you were removed, my body still thinks it's pregnant. When I take a pregnancy test several days after the D&C, it still shows up positive. What a mind trip, that you seem to be still there, even though you're not, even though you technically never have been. What a strangeness, that the body refuses to yet acknowledge what the mind already knows, what the heart has figured out all on its own. 

Dear Thi, that is the story of your baby sibling, short and brief. I have always felt guilty over you being alone while your father and brother and I get to move forward in our lives together. Yes, in a sense, you are always with us, but often I picture you playing around your gravesite, waiting for us to visit and bring you flowers and toys. Well, now Mama has sent a baby sibling to keep you company, Thi. Take good care of Baby, my girl. I wish I could hold you both in my arms, but that is not my fate. So as your father says, "Be good. Don't cause too much trouble, my loves." One day we will see you again, on the other side of Darkness.

Those Things Money Can't Buy

When my journey on earth is through, and I stand at the gate in the sky
Thinking of those days we once knew, those things money can't buy
Those things money can't buy are treasures I'll cherish till I die
Your arms, your smile, and your sigh, those things money can't buy

--“Those Things Money Can’t Buy,” Hank Thompson

Dear Thi,

Sometimes when I watch your brother Luc sleep, I marvel at how much he has grown over the past 2.5 years. He is a petite one and has always measured toward the shorter, lighter end of the growth chart, and yet his limbs have gotten longer, and he could no longer nestle completely in the crook of my arms. His hands and feet twitch as he dreams of running, jumping, laughing—all skills unknown to him but a few years ago. 

I watch him grow, dear Thi, and I can’t help but think of you, how old you would’ve been, and what your personality would've been like. You were arrested in growth, and I’ll only remember you one way, my first and last glimpse of you on the night you were born. Cold, hunger, fear—to tackle life means to take on all that it has to offer, the entire gamut of good and bad experiences. You were brought to life but then taken from it, and so you won’t know of all the terrible things that could transpire in the course of a lifetime and especially during times like war and famine. I’d like to think you knew nothing but warmth and love and comfort; I tell myself that whenever I catch myself too deep with regret that you are not here with us now. But then neither will you experience all the joys and thrills of the human experience, all the things that money can’t buy. The feel of the sun’s warmth. The smell of flowers. The marvel of a rainbow. The succulent tastes of your favorite foods. Music filling your ears and uplifting your soul. You won’t go through the pain of a broken heart, but neither will you feel the first flutters of falling in love.

Your father and I are quite fortunate; our families took us by immigration out of an impoverished land with limited opportunities for growth and prosperity. We’ve been hired into careers that allow us to support our family. We bought a house before the current real-estate craze of million-dollar homes. We were blessed with a son, and he has never known the feeling of begging for an apple on an impoverished island, or being bullied by classmates whose parents had more influential leverage with the teachers. And yet for all our comforts and financial security, I can’t help but long for those little moments that could have been, all the things that money can’t buy. The slip of your warm hands in mine, or to feel them clumsily grope for me as you seek comfort in the dark. Seeing joy in your eyes as you experience something wonderful for the first time. Memorizing your visage and your voice, hearing you progress in your wisdom. 

Seven months, my girl. Mama loves you, misses you, and thinks of you every single day. I hope you are doing well, wherever you are.