That is what I need. I have learned a lot about friendship these past few months. Some people have run so far away from us and never looked back, as if we’re diseased and contagious. It’s very painful because not only do I have to feel the pain of losing you every single day, but I do it all alone. Except your dad. He has always very consistently been there for me. My greatest support. But besides him, I feel completely alone. It’s like, it’s too painful for people to imagine my pain for even one second… so they ignore me and ignore my suffering because it’s easier. Then, imagine how I must feel? If experiencing the loss of my child makes you uncomfortable as I cry to you for 5 minutes? It’s nearly constant for me, so why can’t you bear 5 minutes of SOMEONE ELSE’S PAIN? The fact that people can’t even do that much just goes to show how deeply injurious your loss has been.

Today I was in orientation for a new job and as I sat watching the speaker for some reason I kept having such invasive thoughts of you. Specifically, the moment when the ultrasound tech asked me, “When’s the last time you felt baby move?” I heard her voice, her enunciation of each word and each syllable. Over and over and over. And I saw myself, sitting up from the ultrasound table, just leaning my elbows back to prop my upper back up, and I gasped, “Why?” But at that second I already knew, I was panicking, no, no, no, no, please G-d no. To which she responded, “I don’t see a heartbeat.” That. And over and over again. And I screamed out, “WHAT?!” Desperate. I was so desperate for her to be wrong. And then that was it.

Today, October 6, is Michael’s birthday. A day each year that my mom would remember. She’d light a candle for him. He’d have been 33 today, my older brother. And all these years, when she’d tell us, “today is Michael’s birthday,” all I could ever say was “Oh, really,” all awkwardly and dismissive. This year I can finally understand. I asked her if it’s especially hard this year because I lost you, and she asserted that yes it most definitely was. There was so much pain behind her voice. I never thought I’d be able to relate to her in this way. Today, I cry for Michael, too. I cry for all the babies in Heaven who never got a chance. I cry for all the mommies left behind on Earth to live with emptiness and heartache. I cry for all the people who couldn’t answer their phone today when I reached out to call and connect with them. People who should be there for me but who aren’t. Because life happens, people get wrapped up in their own business, they aren’t sitting around crying their brains out all night over the loss of their baby just praying that someone picks up the phone to offer a piece of comfort, as if there could be any at a time like this.

I guess that will be me, in 33 years. Left with only a private ritual to repeat each year, not that I think I’ll ever let a day go by without thinking of you, let alone a year. You’re always on my mind, Noa. I love you still and miss you and think of you every second. Love, Me, your momma.