Ronnie

     Dear family and friends; you may have seen the blue and pink filter across my husband's or my profile picture on Facebook. No, we are not having twins. The pink and blue represent the women and families who have lost a baby or infant. This isn't about people wearing pink to show support for those with breast cancer. This isn't about wearing blue to raise awareness about diabetes. In this day and age, there are colors that depict almost every condition there is. Except for pregnancy and infant death. Why is this issue less important than the others? Millions of women are keeping silent. I read a statistic analysis that said that from 1-2 weeks there is a 75% of miscarriage. From 3-6 weeks, that percentage is lowered to 10%. So, is my pink and blue ribbon going to change any of that? No, it isn't. But it does provide an opportunity to raise awareness when people ask us about it. Why is this so important to us? Because, we too have been lost in the labyrinth of darkness that pregnancy loss brings.

     Not that long ago, I called my husband at work to let him know what was happening. In retrospect, I probably should have waited until he was home to break the news to  him. But I needed to hear his voice and to listen while he prayed over us. When he got home, I remember him holding me in his arms while we both sobbed. What hurt me the most was the fact that I didn't even know I was carrying a baby. I'm largely house-bound and don't get much exercise, so I attributed the weight gain to not getting enough exercise. I also missed two periods, which I attributed to the stress of having chronic medical issues. For 18 years I've been told by various doctors that I can't even get pregnant. The daily nausea and vomiting should have been a clue, but I have chronic migraines. Nausea and vomiting is just par for the course. I didn't know. That's all. I just didn't know. 

     At first, I was incredibly sad and angry at God. Then I remembered that God is big enough to take my anger. I remembered that HE is the one who carries our transgressions, heals the sick, and let the captive go free. I was reminded that God is a God of miracles and life. If He made the life that is gone away from us, then in His perfect time, He can make life again. Does this make me less angry? Yes, it does. Does it mean mean the sadness and longing have gone away? No, I think that has become a part of me. But it gave me some much needed perspective. I want to share a very personal letter that I wrote to our unborn baby.

Dear Baby,

     I know that you will never get to read this letter. But I'm writing the things I would tell you if you were still with us. I'm writing so that I will never forget. I'm writing to remember. First and foremost, I want you to know that I've loved and waited for you for most of my life. When I was 5, someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. My answer was "the mother of my children." That was my biggest goal in life, to be your mother. 


     I will miss holding you in my arms and singing to you. I will miss watching your daddy read to you and put you to bed. Your daddy would read you fairy tales that are magical and exciting. I would have read you Tolstoy, Austen, and probably some Poe for good measure. I will miss dressing you in the cute clothes that your grandmothers and aunts would have sent you. I will miss watching you play with the army men and Legos that your uncles would have given you. I will miss seeing the pride on your grandfather's faces when you hit your first home run. I will miss the smell on your head that only babies have. I would trade diaper changes and 2 am feedings with joy if it meant I still had you. But I don't. I don't have any of that. 

     I like to think that you would have been like your daddy. He is loving, kind, gentle. In fact, he is not just the guy who holds me when I cry, makes me laugh, and brightens any room he walks into. He is my best friend. Just knowing about you made him realize that he was capable of loving deeper than he ever realized. You have an amazing daddy. I just wish you had known him. But you didn't. You didn't get that chance.

     We would have turned the guest room into your room. You could have gone to sleep watching the glow in the dark stars that are all over the ceiling. You would have had a wonderful childhood. We would have taken you to the symphony, the zoo, NASA, and exposed you to music and literature from the first days of your life. I wish so much that we could share these things with you. But we can't. Because you aren't here.
 
     There are so many thing I wish I could say to you. I wish I could tell you how much we loved and cherished you. Maybe someday there will be other babies and children that we love, but none will ever replace you. We will always remember you and talk about you. You hold a very special place in our hearts. I want to tell you about your name. We named you Ronnie. It is a Gaelic name that originated from Hebrew. It means "Mountain of Strength." Your last name, Morgan, means "Great Brightness." You are the legacy of many generations of Morgans and Tuckers. Had you lived to meet them, you would have been surrounded by an overwhelming abundance of love, honor, integrity, and faith in God. As much as I want you here with us, you are in a far better place. You are daily in the presence of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. You are in the presence of the God of Clinton and Martha. You are exactly where you are supposed to be. But that doesn't make me miss you any less. 

     We love you baby Ronnie. You will always be in our hearts and never far from our minds. I don't understand  why we lost you and I probably never will. But here I stand with unshakable faith and I can say with Job "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."  (Job1:21)

Dear Brother

Dear Brother,


You died on this date several years ago.  I don't know how many years because I avoided reading your obituary, death certificate or anything else that might provide a cleaned up account of your existence or lack thereof..  I'm not actually sure this is the correct date for that matter.  It was the third week in June, that's as close as I can get.

I don't know how else to start except to scream: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

I spent most of my childhood not saying or thinking this because it was wrong to hate someone.  I hated you for how you treated me.  I hated you for scaring me all the time.  I especially hated you for locking me in that big wooden box under your bed.  You were flat out one of the meanest people I've ever known.  I don't think childhood hatred is really hatred, or even an absence of love.  I think it was just the strongest word I knew to use for how helpless and angry you made me feel.  But you know what I  actually, really, truly hated about you?  I hated that not once, in 30 some odd years of being my older brother did you  ever stand up for me or protect me in any way.  Not once.   I hated you for repeatedly taking advantage of the blind trust I had in you.

As we both became adults, I tried to let go of all of this.  I at least tried to get over it.  I tried to be your friend.  I was so happy when you had children, I think I saw it as a way for you to redeem yourself somehow.  Or maybe it was to redeem me.  I tried to listen to you and be on your side when you got divorced.  I swore to you to protect your children if something ever happened to you.  When you got so sick, I sent you all the money I could as a college student so you could afford your medicine.  I found you places to stay when you came to see the kids.  I kept you apprised of how they were doing.  I ran interference between you and other family members.  I did everything I knew to take of you.  That was how I loved you.

You were a sick and distressed  man.  I know you were in pain, hurting and confused.  I know you did not want to be a burden.   I blamed myself for years for not doing more for you.  I hated myself for not answering those last phone calls.  It took many years and still it is hard for me to believe I couldn't have saved you if I had tried harder.  I would have done anything to help you if you had let me.

I am so incredibly hurt and angry to this day about your curtain call.  I need to understand but know that I never will.  I don't know what to tell your children when they are grown and ask about their father.  I don't know what to say to the families of my friends when they take the same exit.  All I can do is cry with them and hope that somehow I can show them that there is still life left in them and that death is not the end.

I've done everything you have ever asked me to do.  I have done everything to be the aunt/father to your children that you can no longer be.  I've failed miserably,  but I did do my best.  I like to think that if you were still here we would have been friends.  Or at least that you would be proud of me and finally approve of me.

For the first three years I thought about you thousands of times a day and dreamed about you every night.  I was shocked one day to realize you weren't everywhere in my mind.  But without fail on your birthday, Christmas, anytime we have a new baby born into the family,  a grandparent passes away, or the third week in June, I turn into a person I am afraid to be.  The depth of my sorrow seems like a wide gaping mouth ready to swallow me.  I don't understand how I still feel this way after so many years.  I don't understand why you still haunt my dreams.  I don't even know I've dreamed about you until I wake screaming.   I don't know what else to do to make myself back into who I was. I don't even know if that is who I really want to be.   You shattered my world and I hated you for it.

I've stomped on your grave and cursed you.  I've screamed until I had no voice and cried until I had no tears.  I have wrestled the devil, God, and everything in between trying to understand. There is a huge emptiness inside me for a brother who was never what I needed, but that I am afraid I learned too late how to love.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.