If you did not read my previous posts, Therapeutic Endeavors part I & part II, I’ll catch you up.
Basically; I had a crappy therapist, became a therapist and then had a much better therapist. He suggested I write a letter to my son telling him all the things I wished I could have said to him and the things I wished I could have done with him. I decided to share this with everyone. That’s what this third piece of my post is going to be.
Jasper,
I am thankful to have had you in my life, even for a split second. I can’t quantify the amount of joy you brought us during our pregnancy. All of the squirms and kicks, your good quirks, how you made us very aware that you had favorite TV shows. We loved seeing you kick back and relax during the ultrasounds. I still marvel at the stretch marks and c-section scar that you left; evidence that you were here.
You were robbed when your life was cut short. We were robbed too. There are so many things that we wanted to watch you explore.
We looked forward to seeing your face when you actually got to see Doctor Who for the first time. We wanted to have the adventure of cloth diapering you. Your dad installed the sprayer on the toilet already and I was excited to think of the mistakes that were in store for us. We never got to tell you how much we love you. We do. So much. You never got to try on all of the clothes I went crazy buying for you while you were in my belly. You never got to play in the pack and play that we picked up on sale. It was camo, but we figured you wouldn’t really care. You never got to sleep in the crib that you grandma bought for you. You never got to draw on the chalk board closet doors we painted for you. We knew you would be quite the artist. Or maybe you would’ve done crazy math problems on it like your dad.
I was very excited to see you play with your little cousins. I know you guys would’ve done some crazy, amazing things together. Gracelynn was aware of you in my belly. She would look at my belly and up at me. She also used to reach for the necklaces that we put your ashes in. I don’t know if she remembers but I just have this little feeling that the two of you were on a sort of telepathic wavelength.
Oh, how I looked forward to seeing your beautiful eyes and hair. I wonder if they would’ve been blue like your dad or multicolored like mine. I could see that tinge of ginger in your hair just like me. Your hair was going to be beautiful and wavy. You were such a tall boy too. I imagine you would’ve towered over your dad and me sooner rather than later.
I wish we could have seen you play with our puppies. Obi-Wan never liked hearing babies cry, but he’s matured a lot since you died. I think Qui-Gon knew when you died. He used to snuggle up on my belly. You could’ve loved them. You probably wouldn’t have ever met Padme because I doubt we would’ve gotten another crazy dog if you would have lived. She helped us through a lot after you died.
Every year brings a new trial for us. What you should be doing. What we should be able to see you do. What we should be able to teach you. Next year would be kindergarten. I can’t help but consider which school you would be going to. There was that one really close to our house in Vegas that we walked by all the time. I admit, I fantasized about walking you there and picking you up. The summer would’ve been way too hot but I think it would’ve been nice in the fall.
I wonder what your voice would sound like. Now, I can not stand the sound of children talking loud, crying or especially screaming. I think any sounds you made would’ve been musical. Elementary was hard for me and your dad and I always talked about how hard it could’ve potentially been for you too. Both of us are very awkward and not very good at social interactions. Or maybe, you would’ve been super extroverted.
We missed out on middle school. Your first girlfriend. Your first kiss. Dances. We will never get to see you get dressed up for homecoming or prom. We will never get to help you with your homework or help you pick out a college to go to. Maybe you wouldn’t have gone to college. Maybe you were just going to be a free spirit that wasn’t tied down to debt and work. I know we would’ve been proud of you either way.
I have a feeling you were going to be good with technology, likely better than both your dad and me. You probably could’ve taught us a thing or two even at very young ages. I played a lot of candy crush while I was pregnant with you. I haven’t played since you died.
We will never see the companion you would have chosen. We will never see the beautiful grandbabies you may have given us. You’ll never be able to take care of us the way kids often take care of their parents at the end.
Part of me wishes I could say that I believed you were somewhere waiting for us. Somewhere peaceful and happy. The other part of me knows that if you were waiting somewhere for me, your wait wouldn’t be long because I would join you as soon as I could. We will always always miss you. We will always wonder what you would’ve been for Halloween, which foods you would’ve liked on Thanksgiving, what you would’ve asked for your Christmas. I’ll always have to try my hardest to not be bitter on Mother’s Day, wondering what lovely gifts you would’ve made me.
Every single holiday has been and will be a struggle. You won’t be opening gifts or sharing family dinners. We have had to learn (and I guess we are still learning) how to make it through those days without you. I don’t know if we will ever master it.
But we will also always love you. We will never ever forget you.
Always missing you,
Mom
They knew they wanted more children and have since suffered many early miscarriages during the process of multiple IVF and IUI cycles which have left them with broken hearts.Feeling defeated and alone, the bereaved parents moved to Connecticut in search of a much needed new start.
Amber was inspired to work towards becoming a therapist during her process of trying to find support after her loss. She is currently a freelance graphic designer, artist and marriage and family therapy graduate student. She takes comfort in the idea that their son was a driving force for her to help other people through a time that she and her husband felt so alone.
- On Being Too Sad To Support Me In Celebrating My Son. - April 9, 2018
- Therapeutic Endeavors III: The Letter - January 26, 2018
- Therapeutic Endeavors Part II - January 24, 2018