Dear Raspberry,
When I found out I was pregnant, I stopped breathing. To write from an honest page, I didn’t feel excitement in those opening moments. Just shock. And dawning realization, like the weightiness of a very heavy book being laid in my hands. I stared at those lines, two to be exact, and watched them blur in and out because of the shakiness of my hands.
I tried to understand. It was a big moment, you see. I tried to process that there was a you. No longer just a me, but an us. The bathroom sink didn’t look quite solid as I hung over it, sucking in air like a displaced goldfish. Your dad was downstairs getting the house ready for sleep, and I knew I couldn’t tell him like this, ten o’clock at night with pajamas already on. So I slipped those two lines into the drawer, the only evidence of your existence.
I crawled in bed and said good night like this was just an ordinary night. But of course it wasn’t. Everything was different. I laid awake for a long time thinking about you. I woke up every few hours, my heart speeding up as I tried to understand that there was a you.
In the morning I got dressed and brewed butterscotch tea and we got on the bus to go to work. But every moment I felt wide awake, in some ways more awake than I’ve ever felt before, knowing that you were with me. And I thrilled in our secret, the marvelous secret of motherhood. Nobody else in the whole wide world knew of your existence. It was just you and me, Raspberry. You and me.
I told your dad that night. It was a big surprise, and he picked us up and swung us around. We slept like stones in a stream that night, happier than we’ve ever been. Even happier than that time we heard Emile Pandolfi play piano live. You were even better than that.
The next few weeks were not composed of baby shower cake and footie pajamas and bath towels shaped like ducks. I was sick a lot. There was never enough sleep to go around. Your dad and I looked at the budget and wondered what we’d eat this time next year. And most of the time all I could think about was nachos, the kind with drippy fake cheese that you pick up at high school basketball games.
But then we had the ultrasound. You were a blob, to be honest. Just a little thing. But I saw your heart beating, fast and strong and determined. I sat there for a long time, tears streaming down my face, and I just marveled that there was a you. A miraculous you.
Every day I learned to love you a little more, even without being able to see you. That’s what we call faith. Believing without seeing. Loving without seeing.
One day we went to the doctor and they tried to listen for your heartbeat, but they couldn’t find it, Raspberry. They insisted it was okay. They said it was still early and we’d for sure hear it at the next appointment. But I knew. I knew that you weren’t with me anymore. My spirit had stopped sensing yours, and the same threads that had bound us together were now unraveling.
Over the next few days it became obvious, and we went back for another ultrasound. But this time there was no jumping heart to greet us. Just silence. Cold and grim and unfeeling. And the lady said that she was sorry, but no one was more sorry than me. Because nobody could have loved you like I do.
It hurts to write these words because now I’m trying to understand that there’s no longer a you. I struggle to process that you shared your life with us for just a little bit and then went on to something better.
Today I held a sleeping child in my arms, someone else’s Raspberry, and I had to ask God why I will never hold you like this. Why I will never watch you sleep or feel your heart beating against my skin.
But I have to have faith, Raspberry. It’s one of those things I would have taught you about if you’d stuck around longer. There are many terrible things in this world. Life is not always beautiful. Sometimes it is so deeply, darkly painful that you can barely lift your head from the pillow.
But it is possible to believe and not see. It is possible to believe that someday God will make everything right, just like He promised. I trust Him, Raspberry, even when I don’t feel hope. Even when the way feels so black and narrow that I can’t see my own hand in front of my face. Someday, in this life or the next, the sun will peek over the treetops and warm my face, and I’ll be able to see again. I’ll be able to understand.
Until then, I continue to wake up in the morning, get dressed, climb onto the bus. I continue to miss you with every fiber of my existence. But despite it all, I’ll still believe. And when another day has passed, I’ll be able to say – I’m so thankful that there was a you.
MbP
January 4, 2019Thank you for your courage to speak about the hard things, hoping your pain can minister to another. That right there, is the process of healing. Beautifully written!
Aunt Sissy
January 4, 2019I believe your Raspberry’s Spirit lives.
What a wonderful gift.
Love you.
Sp proud and thankful for you and Raspberry.
Rita
January 4, 2019“I am with you always.” Matthew 28:20a
Personal piece about a priceless treasure!
Pam
January 5, 2019We love you. And we understand a little bit. Thank you so much for sharing about little Raspberry, it will help a lot of people. ❤️
Pam
Samantha
January 5, 2019Thank you for sharing your gift. Beautiful!
Samantha
January 5, 2019Thank you for sharing your gift. Beautiful
Jessi
January 5, 2019Love you, thank you for sharing….you are such a beautiful person inside and out…i am truly blessed to have you as my family
Lauren
January 5, 2019Elizabeth and Tommy, We are so sorry for your loss, and for your missing. We pray so much comfort as you grieve Raspberry and all the dreams you had of life with Raspberry. I am so comforted by Jesus weeping alongside his friends just before He raises Lazarus. He knows all the good He’s bringing about in our brokeness, but He is also the God of all comfort and full of compassion. Praying for you all. Grieving with you all. Love, The Reynolds
Lauren
January 5, 2019Also there’s a song by Watermark called Glory Baby dealing with a similar struggle. xxx
Alyce
January 5, 2019I am so sorry about your painful loss! I too believed I miscarried. It is I explainable!
Robin
January 5, 2019Love and hugs. So appreciative of your heartfelt words. The remembrance of Raspberry will remain with you and those who love you. Prayers as you walk forward in small steps.
Larry & Sara Hammett
January 5, 2019That was beautiful Elizabeth! I have felt that loss more than once but it hurt most when our twin boys went to heaven! But God sustained & gave us comfort as he did Katie when she lost her baby! I know God will see you through & will give you a special little one to love at just the right time! You are in our prayers & hearts!♥️ We love you so! U P Larry & Sara
Brenda Good
January 5, 2019Oh Elizabeth. I didn’t know. And you shared so wonderfully. I pray the Lord will hold you close and comfort you. I love you very much.
Debby Smiley
January 5, 2019Thank you for sharing. My heart breaks with you , but “joy comes in the morning”. We love you both.
Danielle
January 6, 2019I love that you had the courage to share this painful story that too many know all to well, me being one of them. Miscarriage is something that is painful to talk about, but we need to so much more so that when it happens to someone else they don’t feel so alone. I’m so sorry for your loss. Praying for you!
Elizabeth Lyvers
January 6, 2019Yes! It is SO hard to talk about but worth it, I think. You’re not alone and I’m not alone, and that makes it better.
Kate
January 7, 2019This is heartbreakingly beautiful. Thank you for sharing your love and loss with us. Your bravery will not only help you as you grieve and heal, but it will help many others. God bless you!
Lindsy
January 7, 2019Oh sweet friend. I have been there. We have been there. It is so hard to understand and it is an ache that is hard to articulate. It’s hard to be rising, eating, moving around, working and all the whole no one knows that you’ve lost a child because no one knew you had one. I will be praying for you. Honestly, I’m so comforted in knowing we will meet our 5th one day and all will be right again. Love you!
Elizabeth Lyvers
January 7, 2019Thank you for sharing! You just never realize how many people around you have felt this pain. I love you!
Kelsea Seago
January 9, 2019You write so beautifully and I am so moved by this. Tears are silently streaming down my face as I think back on our phone call. Love you so much, E. Better days to come. ♥️