This page is a memorial for the babies my husband and I have lost during the time we have tried to augment our family with the pitter-patter of little feet. They represent our lost hopes and broken dreams. Without having any tangible memories of them, such as ultrasound photos, this is our way of remembering them and acknowledging the babies that should be alive and well, but were taken much too soon. Never be afraid to ask me about my babies. It hurts to discuss them, but hurts more to act like they never existed.

mourning at 3 a.m.

It was a strange place to say goodbye to our little girl. 3 a.m. on a bridge, listening to "100 Years," and watching her candle float down the river. It didn't give me the closure I'd hoped for. In some ways, it exposed everything again, ripping off a scab that barely covers a wound never fully healed. I don't know what I hoped our goodbye memorial would accomplish. It depressed me, thinking Sprout will never play in the river, or stand on a bridge with her husband, whatever the circumstances. There are so many things she'll never do that I couldn't even begin to list them. There aren't enough letters, words, and paper to write down all that she will miss out on.

The flame of the candle seemed to last longer than poor little Sprout. J's parting words finally brought the sobs that had blocked my throat, preventing the eloquent goodbye I wanted to say. I said it all silently, while aching to hold the little girl who will never be born.

It was just our little family. J and Toby and I, giving the gold rose its send-off. No one noticed or cared about the memorial commemorating the passing of what should have been our baby's due date. Only for us was her existence, however brief, a life-changing event. She made us parents, and parents we remain, without a baby. How can that be so overlooked by the outside world? How many other babies pass like a candle in the river without any acknowledgement? Miscarriage is a silent sorrow, and no one wants that to change. Bear your pain in silence. Don't spread the misery, for others prefer to remain secure in their ignorance of unborn death. It only happens to other people. Now, we are among those people.

Mourning at 3 a.m. It sounds poetic, but it's only gut-wrenching, soul-rending, self-induced heartache. There is no goodbye, no closure, no way to heal the pain left by her death. How can someone we knew of for such a short time leave such a big hole? Maybe it's because we knew her before we knew of her, and we are now left imagining how she would have been. As someone once said, "It's not when life begins, but when love begins." For us, we loved Sprout before she was conceived. We love her still.

We will love her always.

A candle sent to the river can never be enough to fill the void left by not being able to see her, hold her, love her. The ache lessens, but never fades. We go on living, but are we truly alive? How can we be when part of us died with our Sprout and the other babies we've lost?

This ritual is all we can offer our lost babies. It isn't enough, but what else can we do? Our meager memorials are the only proof someone still remembers them, the only way to keep their memories alive. Maybe it's not supposed to be about closure. Maybe, it's just about remembering.

01/04/2000:  Six weeks' gestation. EDD was 08/13/2001

07/14/2003:  Five weeks' gestation. EDD was 03/23/2004

07/29/2004:  Four weeks' gestation. EDD was 04/06/2005

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