Butterflies and rainbows

Unlike last year, we had good weather for Cora's birthday this year, so we were able to release her butterflies on her birthday.

and the place we went to dinner was next to a Build-a-bear, so Erin decided we needed to go stuff a bear for Cora.  And she chose a rainbow bear.  A rainbow bear stuffed with love by her rainbow siblings.

I love that Erin has such an attachment to her sister that she's never met.

Dear Cora,

I can't believe it's been 6 years.  Who would you be today?  It's hard not to try to imagine you here with me, my life as it should have been.  I wish I could know what you would have been asking for this year.  Would you be a girly-girl, all ponies, princesses and dolls?  Or would you be a rough-and-tumble tomboy?

I miss you.  More than any words can say.  You have a part of my heart that nothing else can take.  There isn't a day that you don't pass into my thoughts, some way, some how.  I wish I could care for you like I do your siblings, and get comments about you from strangers.  Your hair would be a hit, I just know it.

I love you darling girl. Happy birthday.

Love, Mommy

If Only I'd Known.

I have often regretted not going to the hospital Cora's last night, when I was at work and a coworker offered to take my place so I could go in because I told her I felt "off."  Especially after looking at the ultrasound from 23 weeks and it becoming painfully obvious that her cord was around her neck then.

I've often told myself that "if only I'd known" about her cord placement, I might have gone in and maybe they would have seen her distress and could have saved her.

But in thinking about it today, the anniversary of the day we confirmed she was no longer living, I realized something.  I was thinking about the last movement I remembered, a long stretch into my ribs that prompted me to ask her not to hurt me, and I couldn't help but wonder if it was the last I remembered because it was the last.  If that is the case, then even if I had gone to the hospital then, it would have been too late.

This actually gives me peace, even though some might think it would do the opposite.  It means that my inaction didn't alter the outcome.  

I still hurt immensely for her.  I miss her today of all days, as I relive the trauma of the doctor's awful words "her heart's not beating," and that still image that is seared into my mind.  But it gives me some peace.