**This is part II of II. Read part I here.

I never got to tell him goodbye.

It’s been about eight months since he was born and taken into the room next to me. In the beginning, I was very hard on myself about my decision. I can remember lying in my bed, screaming that I was afraid he was mad at me for not holding him and not keeping my promise of whispering how much I loved him in his ear. These were very dark moments in my grief. Almost instantly after calming myself down, I would question myself how I would have been able to give him back. I couldn’t. My self-doubt almost drove me insane. There were many nights I would go online to for support, but ended up feeling worse seeing moms holding their child. I loved that they were able to have those moments together, but it made me mad that I didn’t choose that with his body. Then I would read how people didn’t understand how someone couldn’t see their baby after they were stillborn. It made me feel like an outcast and that I probably would be judged if everyone knew. Or maybe they didn’t think I loved Jensen.

I never doubted the love I had and still have for him, which makes all these thoughts much more complex.

There came a point around month four, where I was confident I made the right choices in that moment. The wonderful people in my in-person support groups let me know what I did was the best decision I could make for me, at that time. I had met other moms who didn’t see their child and they went through the same thought process I had. By then, I had seen Jensen’s hospital pictures and kept a lock of his blond hair close to me. I was so afraid to look at his pictures at first, but he’s absolutely beautiful. He honestly has the chubbiest cheeks ever. When I saw him in the pictures, I didn’t see death or have the intense shock obscure my thoughts. There was a peace that settled within me, even though there were unanswered questions.

I questioned how he would have felt in my arms.

I questioned what his blond hair would have looked like on his head, especially since I have no pictures of him without a hat on.

I questioned how my sanity would have been if I did hold him.

I questioned how his weight would have felt on my chest.

I questioned how long his arms and legs were.

And the list goes on, but those are the top five.

Often times, I pushed those questions out of my head. I focused on what I knew, how I felt, and what I could do to honor him. It brought me happiness to see moms with their babies and I felt like I could offer support to moms that made the same decision as I. Honestly, I stopped questioning myself for months. But, like all things in grief, I was triggered by one of the answered questions.

In November, my Jensen bear came in. I had been so excited to finally get to see him and feel Jensen’s weight in my arms. When I brought him home, I ripped open the box and pulled him right out. Instead of feeling the familiar peace as I had for the past three months, I was completely triggered. It shocked me more than anything because all I had wanted was to know his weight in my arms. Holding him brought back the questions and made me feel regret again and again. Flashbacks came to full force, which made me not want to hold him again. After a few days, I came back around to loving on him and I love feeling Jensen’s weight. It’s answered a question I’ve wanted to know for (then) seven months.

The hardest part of not seeing him was never being able to say goodbye.

As much as I hate talking about beliefs, they have helped me cope with this decision and all the aftershocks from it. There’s a part of me that’s mad, in general, that there wasn’t a proper goodbye to his physical body. He died inside of me and I did not know. I did not feel him die and it had to have happened in my sleep the night before those haunting words. Before I had to make a decision that would haunt me for, potentially, the rest of my life. It hurt not being able to tell him I loved him one more time, but I believe I did. I believe that our bodies are just vessels our souls occupy for their time on earth. I believe when his left my body, our souls embraced each other. They said their solemn goodbyes and I know right before he left, mine sweetly whispered that he is so loved. I know my soul held on to his for as long as they could, but deep down I feel that peace.

When people ask me now if I wish I could go back in time to hold him, I tell them it’s complicated. I explain Danielle in the moment Jensen was born was not ready. She was not ready to see Jensen. She had to be selfish in that moment to protect her heart. If Danielle now, as she’s writing this with tears falling down her face, could go back in place of Danielle in that moment, she would hold Jensen. It doesn’t mean I regret what I did; it just means I made the best decision with the knowledge and understanding I had.

Many of us, if you did or did not hold your baby, feel the aftershocks of the decision you made. I want you to know that no matter what you did in those moments, you did what was best for you. Each and every person has a journey that as individual as themselves and their child. Although our stories are so very different, we do not walk this journey alone.