This will be sad, and I’m sorry, but I need to write this out.
Forgive me God for listening when a relative said that miscarriages “just aren’t something that happens in our family”. Forgive me for being uncomfortable when another woman talked about her baby who had died, and for wishing she would stop talking. Forgive me for my arrogance and my pride.
Forgive me for panicking, forgive me for not knowing, forgive me for all the human responses which aren’t excuses for what happened.
Forgive me for not fighting hard enough or yelling loud enough. Forgive me for not finding another option when I needed to. Forgive me for believing the doctors when they said it was the only way, even if it was, and I don’t actually know that for sure anymore. Forgive me for when I had to choose the hour of Samson’s death, when they walked in and said they were ready when I was, and I looked at the clock and knew he only had twenty more minutes to live, or longer if I asked for it. Forgive me for not asking for more time, all the time in the world. Forgive me for not praying for a miracle, by then I was so resigned to it that I didn’t even think about praying for my boy. Forgive me for ever letting them in the room, forgive me for laying there in silence while they put a needle in, forgive me for telling them to, forgive me for that shot that stopped his heart.
Forgive me God for those two days. I so wish they had not happened. Whatever reasons I had, whatever danger I was in, doesn’t change the fact that I killed my son. My only baby boy. Irrespective of the circumstances, I was supposed to be his mother and supposed to protect him. And I couldn’t, and I didn’t.
Forgive me for not asking to see his body. I knew he was not coming out whole, and I knew the doctors would not want to show him to me, so I just let it go, knowing he would be with you. But even broken, he was perfect and his mother should have held him, at least once.