You have been in heaven now for 39 days 11 hours and 6 minutes.
How is it up there? Are you happy? Do you see us? Does Jesus hold you as much as mommy did? Do you miss me?
I wanted to write to you today to say I’m sorry. I’m UNBELIEVABLY sorry baby girl for not being your advocate. For not seeing that you must have had chest pains associated with your heart for weeks leading up to your death. I wonder if that was what caused you to act the way you did when we thought you were having gas pains. I’m so incredibly heartbroken that because of this oversight we were punished. We couldn’t save you. We didn’t know. That isn’t right. We should have pushed harder to know the facts about your condition and the likelihood of you developing rhythm issues. It turns out, there was a high percentage chance that you wouldn’t make it to your 1st birthday. We had no idea. We were told otherwise. We were assured, even laughed at, when we indicated we were concerned about not knowing how to recognize problems, and if we should have equipment at home or training to deal with problems.
In fact, that horrible moment when you were having cardiac arrest I didn’t think about your heart. I didn’t think about it baby girl because we were assured so many times that we shouldn’t worry about your heart. We shouldn’t worry because you were fixed. You were a normal baby. I didn’t think of your heart, I thought you must be having a seizure due to the DiGeorge syndrome. I thought how odd it was that you would have a seizure because we JUST had your calcium levels checked and they were great.
And when you stopped moving, my heart stopped… I could have sworn my heart stopped. The sound you made, baby, was horrible and it haunts me. You went from crying, to gasping, to making a fading “NNNnnnnn….” noise. Oh my God it haunts me. If I close my eyes I hear you. I see you right here, in that strange twisted position, making the noise. And I watch you go limp as I try to rub your back and get you to wake.
The agony in my soul gets worse every day Morgan. If I knew it was your heart, baby, I would have started CPR right then and there. I would have cried out to your daddy and not brought you upstairs first. I would have. I should have. I should have KNOWN!!
We should be celebrating your newest accomplishments now that you are 4 months old. You should be rolling over, laughing… starting to hold things in your hands. I should be watching you grow, but instead I’m left with a box with your photos and what is left of your earthly body.
Your clothes are still in the dresser, Morgan. Your MamaRoo where you slept is still at my bedside. Your favorite little playing mat, the one you were laying under when you passed, is still in the living room. Your diapers are still stacked on the changing table in our room.
And I still sleep with your blanket. The one you spent your final moments on.
Could I ask you to do me a favor? Can you please visit me from time to time in my dreams? I want to see you. Mommy needs to see you, to smell you, to feel your soft skin. Could you come to me in my sleep? Let me dream about you. Even if it makes me sad when I wake up, don’t be scared about coming back. You aren’t hurting mommy by coming to see me, you make losing you slightly less painful.
Morgan, there is another thing I want to ask you. Your daddy, brother and sisters love you too. We all miss you SO SO much. We all want to see you, so if you could visit them occasionally too that would be great. Both Brooklyn and Taylor would love to play with you in their dreams. Let them remember you.
I will write you again soon baby girl. There isn’t a moment during the day that you aren’t on my mind.