To my missing piece,

[Trigger warning: loss]

When I rushed you to the hospital in the evening, I was unaware of the gut-wrenching fate ahead of us. I only knew something was wrong. I saw blood, and my heart sank to the deepest pit in my stomach. Shivering, trembling, losing feeling in my legs, I called your father and, in a panic, ran to the nearest emergency room. Our hearts were beating out of our chests, and we didn’t know whether yours was beating at all.

I had been dreading the day when my worst fear would be realized. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had willed this into existence myself with all the hours I had spent worrying about it. Mama always used to say, “Acha socha karo, acha hi hoga” (think good and good will happen). But I was never an optimist, and now the law of attraction was blaring in my head, bringing a wave of guilt on top of a tsunami of fear.

The doctors hooked us up to monitors tracking everything our bodies were saying. While mine was in fight-or-flight mode, yours was a mystery. Nurses and doctors came and left, trying to find your heartbeat, trying to locate the life I knew was inside you. Inside me. They told me to calm down, to gather myself, that it would help you, that it would be better for you, but how could I? How could I when the baby that I had nourished and grown and had dreams and plans for was slipping through my swollen fingers? I wish they had told me to fight or scream or cry because that, I could do.

After two hours of constant monitoring and medical hocus pocus the OB came to us with two options. The first was expectant management. I would have to give my body time to realize you were no longer a part of me and eventually release you from my womb. They said this would be the natural way. I wanted to claw my eyes out and rip my ears off. There was nothing natural about the slow anguish of waiting, stalling the inevitable, and anticipating a departure that had already occurred. It was more than my frail, failing body could handle.

“No, I won’t do that,” I said.

The other option was a quick 10-minute D&C procedure to surgically rid me of a life I had spent 3 months building and a century dreaming about. The ‘quick 10 minutes’ seemed to be the selling point, but I needed something that would keep me sedated for at least a year. That might have allowed me to skip through denial and grief and land straight into acceptance this time.

“Choose what feels best for you, emotionally and physically; we’ll give you an hour to decide.”

I don’t know whether I wailed, screeched, howled, screamed or bawled. All I know is my being dissolved into tears and torment for the remaining eternity. I wanted to run to a place far far away, close you up inside me, and never let go. At least then I could believe that you were still with me. That you were still mine.

I loved you with every cell, atom, nerve, electron, and particle in my body. I always will. I did everything I was told to do to keep you happy, content, and satiated. Walking for 30 minutes, squatting for 60 seconds, no tears because if I cry, you cry, no stress because if I worry, you worry, staying on the bed, staying active, eating healthy, eating what my body craved. I did it all.

Why were you so eager to leave?

How did I fail at being a mother before even becoming one?

My baby blue, I love you, and from now until death, I will be begging the angels to carry all my love to you. I have no use for it here on earth, but in heaven, maybe it can provide you with a mother’s warmth. If you’re watching me from above, guide me. Hold my hand and tell me you’re alright. Know that your mother will not spend a moment alive that will be without your spirit by her side. Without knowing you, I know that you are my reason for being. You are my purpose. You are my end-all be-all.

Perhaps God knew that Heaven is better suited for an angel like you. Wait for me, my love. Mama will come soon.

With every breath left in me,
Your Amma.