A Letter to Anya

Roanna - 20 Dec 15

It is now 48 hours since I was told I am having a boy and not a girl, as I had believed for the past four months.

I miss her so much. Maybe some people will think this is self-indulgent, ungrateful, silly. I can’t do much about that. And to be honest, I don’t care what they think. They’re entitled to their opinions as much as I am. To me, it feels like grief. Grieving for the loss of a child who I thought I’d be meeting any day now, and who I’d love for the rest of my life.  I can’t just switch that off, or transfer it to a new person. I’ll build up my love for him in the same way – but I can’t just replace one child in my heart and mind with another.

I’ve taken care of most of the practicalities. Started telling people. Boxed up her clothes and toys to return or give away. It’s helped me feel a little better to offer them to the children’s hospital – I hope that the love and effort I put into collecting them won’t evaporate into nothing but will benefit other people in a small way. If it will make another mum smile, to dress her beautiful daughter in one of the baby grows I bought for my daughter then I’m glad.

Just as I’m working through her possessions, I know I also need to do the same process with my emotions. For the sake of my sanity, and the sake of the very real little boy who will be appearing soon to change my life forever, I know I can’t keep a physical or mental shrine to her. So I’ve written her a letter. I want to thank her and honour her. And then, as heart-breaking as it is, I know I have to start to move on without her. I don’t think this letter will close the door on her completely, I will always remember her. She wasn’t real, but she was real to me. But hopefully this letter will allow her, and me, and her ‘brother’ some peace.

Here it is –

Dear Anya

I think that was going to be your name. I had it down to three – Anya, Edie or Matilda. Anya because I thought it sounded both pretty and strong. Edie because it sounded free-spirited and happy. Matilda because I love the book by Roald Dahl, and I hoped its heroine could be a source of comfort and inspiration to you, if you ever needed it. But I think I knew that it would be Anya.

I thought I’d meeting you soon. I couldn’t wait. To other people maybe I didn’t seem that excited, but I was. Why did I need to tell them, when you and I knew? We ready, you and I, to meet. I was emotionally ready, you were physically ready – strong and healthy for the outside world.

I’d got very used to having you around. I would lay in bed at night, feeling you kick and squirm away, my hands on my stomach, touching you as close as I could. I thought about how you’d look when you were born, how you’d look a few months later, a few years later, then as an adult yourself. I’m so sad I’ll never get to meet you. I’m sorry I can’t look after you, pick you up when you fall and scrape your knees, and watch you grow up into the brilliant woman I know you would be.

But I will never forget you. You were only here for four months, but your impact will stay with me forever. I don’t know how someone so small has managed to have such an effect, but you have.

I want to say thank you to you, for many things.

Thank you for giving me the courage to start breaking out of things that are no good for me. For making me believe that I have the strength and resources to do this, however difficult they will be, however much upheaval they will bring. In caring for you I have started to care more for myself. I wouldn’t want them for you, and you’ve made me realise I shouldn’t tolerate them for myself.

Thank you for encouraging me to be angry – a strange one, I know. I wondered if ‘angry’ is even the right word. I think it is. It can be good sometimes. At rudeness, at injustices, at how I see and hear people being treated. I constantly ask myself how I would feel if you were being treated in such a way. You’ve broken me out of apathy, out of auto-pilot. You’ve made me want to improve the world, stop shutting the door to keep it out, but to let it in and challenge it and change it for the better.

Thank you for reawakening me. Everything had turned grey before you came along. Music had become background noise. Books sat unread on the shelf. Wine was the only certainty of my evening meal. Because of you, I had a reason to shake myself and re-join the world.

I was once told that when someone you love dies, it feels like they got off the train. You stay on, and the train starts to pull away from the station. You watch them from the window, waving at them as you leave. You keep waving to each other, as they get smaller and further away. Eventually your train bends, and carries you further away, until you can’t see them anymore. But it doesn’t mean that you weren’t on the train together, or that the person who needed to get off wasn’t real, or that you love them any less because you can no longer see them – you’re just being carried on.

It’s stayed with me ever since. But this is the first time I’ve truly understood how it feels. My train is starting to pull away from you. Right now I can still see you so clearly through the glass. If I jumped off now I could be with you. But I can’t.

So I just have time to tell you through the window that I love you so much, Anya. But I need to carry on with my journey. I’m meeting someone, you see. He’s expecting me. I’d hoped we’d have so much longer together, but it wasn’t to be. I’ll never forget our short journey together, and everything you did for me. It was wonderful. Thank you.

Take care, my love…

Mum xxx

Roanna

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