Thursday, March 17, 2016
Tomorrow marks two years since we found out that Molly had died.
The 18th March will forever be Molly's Day in our minds; and we've chosen this day to to dedicate ourselves to her memory. While she was born only moments after Sebastian, and the 25th is her birthday too, this day was the day when our dream, and our twin daughter, was officially lost to us forever.
There's not much we can do in her memory. I caught up with an amazing friend last week, someone who has suffered the same circumstance, and just a year on from me: losing one of her identical twin girls before birth. To meet under these circumstances has obviously drawn us together, but I see her pain reflected and she is just coming up to her little girls' birthday too.
The sad reality is that we don't have much that is tangible to really reflect on. We have Molly's box, that we will take off the shelf in Sebastian's room, and look through some of her things tomorrow. In the box is her teddy, her hat (matching with Sebastian's), a blessing, cards, her stillbirth certificate, and probably most tangibly, her ashes. In a little pouch. That I refuse to part with or scatter; I just can't.
This box is all we have of her; that and pictures of my bump, videos of them moving and kicking, and my own memory of carrying her, alongside her brother, for 8 months.
Going through the box will bring it all back, and I will hurt, but sometimes I want to hurt. Hurting and thinking about her, and the sadness that was losing her and not being able to celebrate two years of her life, means that I am remembering her. I am remembering the hopes and dreams I had for her, and ourselves, as parents.
Going to the 'dark place', even for moments in the day tomorrow, is time I am dedicating to my daughter that never made it. And may she know that I am thinking of her and always will.
As Sebastian gets older, he will start to ask questions and will learn that he was one of a pair. This will come as a shock, and perhaps, a revelation, but Molly was very much a piece of his future too. His future looked quite different as a twin - and we have to acknowledge that for him as much as ourselves.
We will release balloons on the common and hope that she knows, wherever she is, that we have wishes for her infinite happiness and peace. And may she look over us, our little growing family, and especially over her big brother.
I'm in a different place as to where I was a year ago. The rawness of coming up to their first birthday was almost unbearable. This year, it feels more measured, more matter-of-fact. Perhaps it's because I am pregnant with another little miracle, or because time numbs, but also perhaps because there has been a lot of death over the past six months.
But the pain still sits there, deep inside me, and moves like a slow current. It pulls at me, prods me, reminds me. It can be when I see twins being wheeled past in a double buggy, or when someone I know falls pregnant with twins (was bound to happen...), or when I picture Sebastian playing with her. Or when his big brown eyes look up at me and I know hers would've looked exactly the same. The pain lies deep. I can coat it with everything else, but it'll always be there. It's something I've grown to accept, and I don't fight it.
Tomorrow is her day. And I will cry my eyes out; no doubt. But that's OK - that's just how this will be until I die one day.
We miss you dearly, my Molly.