To Marin

Marin Ivyanne

May 7, 2010 - May 22, 2010

Note: This may be difficult to read. It is ever so difficult to write, but I need to get the words out. I need to write these thoughts to and for my darling baby girl.

You took your last breaths of life in my arms.

I am so deeply saddened that I will never know who you were to become.

You were perfectly formed--from your blond head of hair to your pink rosebud lips to your delicate little fingers to your "daddy's toes."

When Hayes talks about you, he says, "my Marin..." I am crushed each time I hear this sweet endearment.

We will teach your twin about you. But he will already know you.

I need to find a new home for the clothes that I collected for you. I can't bear to have them here, reminding me that you'll never wear them. But I can't bear to give them all up---I will keep some of the things that I never want to dress another.

Will I ever feel like this has really happened? Will I ever get over this? Or will I always have to pretend to be OK? Will I ever be the same?

You gave me 10 days of absolute bliss when you were healthy and thriving. Why did you let me fall so in love only to leave me the way you did? How could this happen to you? To me? To our family?

You fought so hard in the end. The doctor thought you'd stay with us for no more than ten minutes after removing the breathing tube. You shocked everyone, your heart beating and you breathing for over nine hours. It was the most wonderful 9 hours for your father and me. We weren't rushed as we touched and kissed and memorized you without all the wires and tubes. We held and rocked you. We sang you the last lullabies you would ever hear.

Your father had the honor of being the only man to ever kiss your lips and dance with you.

I want to be able to talk about you with others, but I don't know how. I don't think they know how either.

We will love and remember you always. We couldn't possibly ever forget.

My heart is broken.