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Each year, there are two days I wish I could just sleep through: Mia’s birthday and the anniversary of her passing. While the days themselves are manageable, the dread leading up to them is relentless. If I could skip over them entirely, would it be easier? Perhaps. This year, in preparation for the anniversary of Mia’s passing, I wrote a post reflecting on how we allowed her to pass naturally, which turned out to be more healing than I ever expected. Taking the time to think back on her life and share my experiences with others helped me navigate through that day and beyond. Writing feels like assembling a puzzle; my thoughts swirl in my mind, and transferring them to paper helps me find clarity.
Now, with Mia’s birthday approaching tomorrow, April 29, I feel that familiar urge to write about what the day signifies for me. This day has always held difficulty, even when Mia was with us—especially during her life. Celebrating her birthday often felt forced; the words “Happy Birthday!” felt jarring. Although we loved Mia deeply and appreciated the joy she brought into our lives, I never felt the happiness that typically accompanies such occasions. Unlike other parents who witness their children’s growth and milestones, Mia’s birthday instead highlighted what we lost and what we never experienced. Each passing day felt endless; we were stuck in a moment that wouldn’t progress.
I miss Mia, undoubtedly, but this year I’ve been contemplating whether I long for her presence or merely the idea of who she could have been. If she were alive, her quality of life would be far from ideal. So when I say I want Mia back, what does that truly mean? How can I wish for her return if it would only mean enduring pain? My grief over Mia is intricate and perplexing.
On this birthday, what I miss most are the dreams I had for her future. I yearn for what might have been if circumstances had been different—if Mia were a healthy, vibrant third grader. Would she have been a guiding force for her younger brothers? I like to imagine them hanging on her every word. During last year’s quarantine, I often pictured her playing teacher to her brothers, George and Leo. Would she have shared moments playing tennis with her dad? Would we have enjoyed mother-daughter walks to escape the chaos of life? Would we have painted our nails in matching colors at the salon? With every diagnosis Mia received, our hopes for her slowly faded, and I lost the vision of the daughter I always dreamed of having.
Nine years later, I still find it challenging to think about the night Mia was born. I seldom look at photographs from those initial hours; when I do, a wave of sorrow washes over me. I was blissfully unaware of the challenges ahead. In those images, I see shattered dreams reflected in my joyful expression. I want to shield my past self, my partner, and Mia from the heartache that awaited them. It’s like watching a horror film, knowing what lies behind the door while the unsuspecting protagonist remains oblivious. I want to scream, “Run!” Of course, I know that escaping with my newborn wouldn’t change her diagnoses, but a few more blissful hours would have been a gift.
Earlier this month, while planning my April blog post, I was overwhelmed with emotions. I texted a dear friend, “I miss Mia so much right now.” As tears streamed down my face, I retreated to my office, not wanting George and Leo to see my sadness. When I told my friend I wished for a living daughter, I wondered if my message seemed abrupt. However, she responded with understanding, asking, “What would she be doing right now?” This question prompted more tears, but they were cathartic. I hadn’t shed tears over Mia in a while, and sometimes, crying can be a release.
I shared my dreams with her, wishing Mia were healthy and able to thrive. “I just wanted to raise a strong, confident daughter and have that special bond.” My friend reminded me, “You did raise a strong Mia, even if her time was cut short.” Her words were a comforting balm.
After our conversation, I joined George in his room. He was lying in bed, engrossed in his toys. As I rubbed his back, tears continued to fall. “Are you crying?” he asked, a hint of confusion in his voice. I explained that I was thinking about Mia and feeling a bit sad. “That’s how I felt about Jesus dying,” he said, trying to relate to my sorrow. My heart melted at his empathy. “Maybe she’s right here with us, Mom, watching you?”
Just then, Leo entered with a baby photo book we had created for George to remember Mia. “Here, Mom,” he said sweetly. My heart swelled with gratitude as I embraced my boys. “I love you both so much.” Leo suggested we have cake for Mia’s birthday, and I agreed, feeling a glimmer of happiness amidst my sadness.
As I put them to bed, I reflected on our strong connections. George’s thoughtful response to my pain showed his compassion, while Leo’s gesture of bringing the photo book reminded me of the love we share. Although I don’t have a living daughter, I do have deep connections with my two boys. I will always mourn the loss of my dreams for a daughter. Certain moments will intensify that grief, as I had envisioned raising a confident girl who would grow to achieve remarkable things. Yet, I realize that Mia’s legacy lives on through me. She has transformed my life, and I am proud to raise my two tender-hearted boys who will treat others with kindness, especially in their suffering.
If you want to read more about parenting and navigating grief, check out this insightful blog post here and learn more about fertility support at Make a Mom. For more information on home insemination, visit Rmany, an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary:
Elena reflects on the emotional complexities of Mia’s birthday and the anniversary of her passing. She grapples with her grief, the dreams she lost for Mia, and the profound connections she shares with her two sons, George and Leo. Through sorrowful memories, she finds moments of joy and understanding, recognizing that while she may not have a living daughter, the lessons from Mia continue to shape her family.
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