For my boy

From the very beginning, you were wanted and planned for. So, true to my need for control, I orchestrated your conception and birth to align with Spring. How innocent and naïve I was. Your big sister was the first person I shared the news of your existence with. She helped me break the news to Daddy when he returned home, and together, as a family of four, we shared our first hug.

My body worked tirelessly to nurture you. What started as morning sickness soon became all-day, all-night sickness, often confining me to bed. Yet, as I nibbled on ginger biscuits, I reminded myself that every discomfort was a testament to the precious life growing within me. Then came November, the day our story changed forever. Two weeks earlier, we had our 20-week anomaly scan at the local hospital. I went into it with naivety, expecting it to be routine like the scans with your sister. My biggest concern was confirming your gender. But what followed was vastly different, darker, and devastating.

Sponsored

Referred to a specialist at a larger hospital, your father and I went about our usual routines that morning, unaware of the impending news. As soon as our name was called in the waiting room, we sensed something was about to happen. Though the words spoken were technical and clinical, the essence was clear: ​“Your baby will not survive, and you must decide when.” The specifics of your diagnosis became secondary, overshadowed by the inevitable outcome. We were presented with a choice: arrange for your passing the following week, or continue carrying you, leaving your fate in the Hands of the Creator of time — and of you.

I confess I struggled. Perhaps the ​“right” thing, especially as a devoted Christian, would have been an unwavering decision to carry you to term without hesitation. But that wasn’t my reality. Faced with the impending loss of you, my initial impulse was to confront it sooner rather than later, as if accelerating the grieving process might lessen our pain. In the aftermath of such devastating news, my instinct was to take control, to mitigate the impending impact. But then I remembered you. Tiny, cherished, planned — you. Your diagnosis was never part of our plan, but you were. This realisation marked a pivotal shift in our journey — from escaping to surviving.

I wish I could recount how I carried you joyfully, but you know, that wasn’t the case. The emotions were overwhelming— resentment, anger, bitterness, loneliness — they engulfed me. In turmoil, I was stuck between wanting you here and dreading the pain your absence would bring. Where was God in all of this? I cried out to Him, pleading for relief, begging for Him to take you to Glory and take me with you.

God carried me as I carried you.. In hindsight, I see His goodness in providing just enough strength for each day, sustaining me . His providence guided us through your birth, your passing, and now, as we navigate life without you.

Your sister’s birth was fraught with complications and fear, and I braced for a similar ordeal as your due date approached. Yet, your arrival was a testament to answered prayers. God granted us a peaceful birth, knowing we would need strength for the days to come. Your birth healed me from past trauma, so much so that I would willingly endure it again tomorrow — not only for its restorative power but also for the chance to hold you once more.

We were blessed with six precious days with you. Before your birth, we pleaded with God, negotiating in desperation: ​“Just one week, we can bear one week, but spare us prolonged agony.” Uncertainty clouded every medical prognosis. You could have left us in the womb, during birth, or shortly thereafter — your departure was certain. In honouring our plea, God granted us this brief but cherished time with you.

And we continue to carry you. Beyond the empty nursery, the unused pram, your presence remains etched in our hearts. Refusing to speak of you in the past tense, we know that you are more alive than any of us left behind. In Christ, you are whole and safe. Though our arms ache with longing and grief weighs heavily upon us, we find profound peace knowing that we will be reunited in Eternity.

You made more of an impact in 6 short days than many do in a long lifetime. And your legacy lives on, as God continues to reveal your purpose and ours in such gentle yet powerful ways. Even though we’ll never hear your little voice on earth, God is using you to speak. And He’s using your big sister too. In fact, just today she gazed up at the sun’s rays beaming through the clouds and proclaimed, ​“Look, I can see Heaven!” And how sweet that day will be, when I finally hear you call me your Mummy, and cuddle you again. I’ll never let go.

My son, I am immensely proud of you and grateful to be your Mummy. I hope you are proud of me too. I will never regret the decision we made to carry you.

I love you and miss you, always.

Mummy