Happy first birthday, my love. I wish more than anything it wasn’t your “heavenly” birthday. I wish I could walk into your pretty room and pick you up from your crib. I would marvel at the fact that you are already one year old, and I would think about how fast time goes by when you really just want it to stop. I’d think about how tiny you were on this day one year ago, and how strong you were right from the start. I think about these “should haves” a lot. How it should be, what we should be doing, what we should be thinking about, what we should be feeling. It feels like an alternate universe that I so desperately want to be a part of, but I’m stuck here, only catching glimpses of the other side. Sometimes, I feel swallowed up by these should haves, because, truly, it should’ve been different. You deserved more, you deserved better.
Yesterday, I kept thinking back to the day before you were born. Your grandma, grandpa, and uncle came and sat by my side all day. We watched the super bowl, and I remember thinking how loved you were already. That my dad would come and sit in a crappy hospital chair during the super bowl just to be close to you and me. He stayed after everyone left, and we talked about you. About my fears and about love. I remember us both being so sure that although this was scary, it would end up just fine. Everyone was so sure. I was so sure. Your dad was so sure. We thought that love was powerful enough to change the course. My deepest sadness to this day is that it was not.
If love could have saved you, Evie, you’d be invincible. I am in awe of how many lives you touched while you were with us, and even more in awe of the lives you’ve touched since you left us. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and light and love seemed to just radiate off that tiny little body of yours. I can still feel your strong grip around my finger. Your tiny little hand and even tinier little fingers. That feeling is still the best one I’ve ever felt, and I still dream about it all of the time. It is the one memory that doesn’t seem to fade around the edges at all- that feeling of you holding on to me so tight. I still remember laughing with the NICU nurses and RTs about how much sass you could give, even though you couldn’t cry or make noise. You were so alive. That is what hurts so bad. You were here, Evie. You had strength, you had a personality. You were here.
On this day, one year ago, I sat with your grandma, thinking it would be another boring day to fill in the hospital. I had an ultrasound scheduled, which always brought both waves of excitement and anxiety. The ultrasound tech didn’t say much, and my anxious brain began jumping to conclusions. When she called in the doctor, it took him no time at all to nonchalantly say that you would be coming today. The rest of the day is a bit of a haze. I remember asking the nurse to please go get my husband from his floor. I remember feeling like 8 hours until surgery was both far too soon and an eternity away. I remember family coming in and out, and how excited everyone was. I remember Lauren and Trevor giving me the “E” necklace that I would then wear every single day afterwards. I remember going over all of the NICU information we’d been given prior to then and again on that day. Girls did better than boys. At 26 weeks, there was a 90% survival rate. We would have to keep an eye on her heart and lungs. There may be long lasting effects to keep in mind. So many thoughts kept racing through my head, and I couldn’t quite stay fixed on one emotion for long. The should haves came creeping in. This should be months from now. I should be so ready and excited. Colin should be nervously pacing around. We should be able to hold her after she is born. Instead, all I could do was put every ounce of faith I had into the hospital staff that they would get my baby out and give her everything she needed to be okay. And they did. You left my body and let out a little cry. I was only allowed a glimpse of you, before you were taken away. Your dad left with you, as I stayed to get sewed back up. I listened to the nurses and anesthesiologist small talk and joke around. I imagined your little body, your one little cry. I had no idea that would be the only time I ever heard you. Your dad was left with such a tough job, standing outside your NICU door, watching you have a million little things done to you. He was so strong and brave, just like you. The entire thing felt like some weird dream. I was brought back to my room and shown pictures of your little foot and your face, but it didn’t feel real. I hadn’t had the time to register that I had become a mom months before I was ready. I wanted to see you, hold you, check on you, kiss you. I never really got to do those things, but the first 24 hours, when I wasn’t even allowed to come see you, were the hardest hours I’d experienced up to that point. I felt like a piece of me was missing, and I wasn’t allowed to go put it back. I wasn’t even allowed to go see it. It should have been different.
Evelyn, darling, it all should have been different. I’m so sorry. I wish I could have kept you safe inside me longer. I wish I had known the right questions to ask and the right decisions to make. I wish I had ignored the recommendations for keeping you the least stimulated as possible, because all I wish is that I had touched you more. Talked to you more. Sang to you. All the things I wish I could be doing right now. I wish I could go back and soak up every little second and inch of you. I wish I could have somehow made love powerful enough to save you. I tried, baby girl. I did, but sometimes, I wonder if I did it wrong. If I’d done something different, maybe you’d somehow be here. The should haves and maybes can be so powerful.
I wish I could write you a happy letter, Evelyn. I wish I wasn’t crying while thinking of you. I wish I was holding you, singing happy birthday and spoiling you with gifts and treats. I wish I could lay you on one of those blankets with a ring around “12 months”. I wish all of those clothes in your closet had been worn, and all the stuffed animals in your bed had been snuggled. I wish your blanket was worn down from washing it so many times. I wish you could have your whole own cake that you could make a mess of. I wish that your family could call you and sing to you. I wish we could reminisce and think about how far you’d come. I wish I could change everything.
This feeling doesn’t seem to get any better. This pain of not having you here. It is indescribable. My entire gut, my chest, my whole body aches and yearns. I feel like I can’t enough air, or that my entire body is clenched and can’t release itself. I feel so powerless, because there is nothing I can do to change it, fix it, make it better. Nothing. This is not a problem that can be fixed. Hard work or passion won’t change anything. There are no lessons learned. There is only darkness and aching and anger. The strongest feelings I’ve ever felt.
There is a reason they are so strong, though, Evelyn. It is because of love. It is because of how much I loved, love, and will love you forever. It is because you were the best thing that has ever happened to me, the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. You were my heart outside of my body, you were everything I’d ever dreamed of. My love for you is so powerful that the pain of not having you feels just as powerful. I love you so much, sweet girl. I want more than anything in this life to be with you right now. Today, I will take rocks painted with your name to all the beautiful places I can find. I will place tokens of love made by people you’ve met and ones you never had the chance to meet- all of whom love you. I will find spots that the sun shines on, the wind brushes, and where flowers grow. The beautiful bits of nature that remind me of the beautiful little girl you were. I will cry with your dad today, I will listen to music that makes me think of you, and I will try not to focus on the should haves.
Happy birthday, Evelyn Elizabeth Zink. Mommy loves you.
