Six years ago while I was pregnant with my first child, my son, Brady , there was a point where I thought he was a girl and we were going to name him Zia. My daughter’s name was set since my teenager days. I kept a pregnancy journal at that time which is now a sort of story of you journal for my son to read when he gets older.
A few years after he was born I started going back and reading my letters and putting bubbles around the name Zia and correcting it to “Brady”. At that time, I also wrote “Maybe one day, you’ll have a little sister and we’ll name her Zia”.
We did, we did, we did, but sadly she isn’t with us. The thing I realised today is that I miss those days of believing that everything was going to be okay and turn out just right. I miss the innocence of it all. The world where I knew that babies and children did die sometimes but where I wasn’t scared that I would experience losing my own. It was horrible to hear of it ever happening to other people. I remembering feeling so sad for all those parents out there who had to go through that but it doesn’t compare to feeling the rawness of losing your own. Of living a life without.
Six years ago, 2009, August I was simply counting down the days till I would see my son. I was enjoying him moving and kicking and living. I couldn’t wait to hold him and I KNEW I WOULD, fast forward a few years later, 2013, August and I was feeling like my whole world had collapsed around me, under a month since I had lost our daughter Zia. I didn’t know what to do, where to turn, completely lost.
Two years, it’s been two years and such reminders still hurt really bad. They make me feel helpless in this big big world of what if’s.