She was real to me

Today would have been her 1st birthday.

Her name was Cynthia Geraldean Leonard.
She was due April 5, 2015.
I miscarried her in August of 2014.

It was early.  We hadn't told many people. I wasn't showing. Hadn't been to the doctor.

I was sick, as I was with every pregnancy.  I knew for a few days.  I bought a test.  It was confirmed.  I was excited.  I told Brian.  We were excited.

Terrified, but excited.  After thinking we were done after our second child, we had decided to try for a third (and planned on a fourth after that). Getting pregnant was easy, and after 2 uncomplicated pregnancies, we expected the best. I started to pull out my few remaining baby items.  I had actually gotten rid of most things after our second, but a few items remained.

We had a boy's name picked out.  In fact, we had it before our first child was born . . . it just took us a while to get to use it.  For a girl . . . well, since our first daughter's name starts with A, and our second starts with B . . . yeah.  We both love names with family ties, so we chose Cynthia after my aunt Cindy who died when I was in college. My aunt Cindy was a beautiful, creative woman with a heart for others and a gift for hospitality.  She was active in her church, involved in charity work, and hosted amazing family gatherings. She could cook the most delicious treats and she always made me feel grown-up and special. We selected Geraldean as a middle name after Brian's grandmother Gerry. She is the sweetest woman and full of energy and smiles. She loves on our children, encourages me as a wife and mother, and cherishes all things family. These two amazing women embodied the things we hoped our daughter's future would hold.

(Note: I miscarried before we knew the child's actual gender.  I choose to remember her as a girl.)

As my excitement built, we told Brian's parents, and mine.  I preferred to keep quiet for a while because about some things I'm just a private person, but Brian loves to share, so share we did. And our families shared in our joy.

While I'll skip the details of the actual miscarriage, suffice it to say that it's an emotionally traumatic moment, with a very anticlimactic physical manifestation. If you have experienced the death of a loved one, you may know the exact feeling of which I speak.  A life leaves, silently, slowly, and you are left feeling empty and alone, but when you look around, everything looks the same as it did before.

I told Brian the next morning.  We cried together.  We grieved together. After a few days, he told our families.  A few consoling comments aside, no one ever mentioned her again.

It does not make me feel any better to forget about her. It does not help when you pretend she never happened. And it really hurts when you say things like, "at least it was early" or "well, good thing you already have 2 healthy kids."

When I got pregnant with our son later that year, I even heard a few comments implying that he replaced her or some how erased her loss.  I disagree. I am delighted to have him, but he is not a replacement or a consolation prize.  Each child is unique and wonderful in his or her own way, and I prefer not to compare them.

Last year her due date fell on Easter Sunday.  A day to celebrate life and resurrection. A day of hope. It was a hard day. Seeing families with babies in Easter dresses, watching my daughters play and laugh, feeling my son kick in my belly - all those joys juxtaposed with the sense of loss made for an emotional roller coaster.  While new life was all around me, the life that would never be was still deep inside me.

As time passes, the loss is less acute, but the questions still cross my mind.  What would she look like? Would she like bananas? What word would she say first? Would she love the outdoors? Could she sing like a lark?

A mom's heart never forgets.  And so today, on what would be her 1st birthday, I choose to remember her by sharing her with you, whomever chooses to read this.  And I ask a favor of you: if you know a mom who is grieving the loss of a child, speak up.  Don't say nothing for fear of making her sad.  The saddest thing to a mother is that no one remembers her child.  So share the memories, the tears, and the lost dreams, and grieve together with her.