Dear Roman,
You are scheduled to arrive in 18 days. I've been preparing my whole life to meet you - especially in the last few months. I want to meet you. I want to hold you in my arms. I want to take you home and love you and feed you from my breast and take care of you.
But I'm so scared.
I'm scared of what lies ahead. I'm scared of the unknown. I'm scared because I don't know what to expect when I see you. The doctors are saying your head is "too small" and that it "might be deformed or misshapen in some way" and also that "there could be possible mental issues as a result". They're saying you're likely going to live in the NICU for the first days or weeks of your life, rather than in the arms of your Mom and Dad, who want to hold and kiss you so badly.
The doctors don't talk about you like they would talk about a normal baby. I used to be able to picture you in my womb - a perfect, healthy, living being. But I can't picture you anymore. I can't even see you in my dreams. I can't even begin to guess what you look like. Because, according to the doctors, you're no longer just a mixture of the genes that your Dad and I have given you. You're a mixture of our genes with a possible chromosomal condition that may affect the way you look. That doesn't mean we love you any less. It only means that I can't picture your sweet, innocent face.
I'm even more scared about something else happening on your Birth Day, Roman. Your brother Raven, whose spirit left his body a few months ago, is going to come out, just like you will. But he isn't going to be in my arms, and he isn't going to the NICU to get better, either. He will be taken away from us, his body to be turned into ash, and given back to us in a tiny urn. And though I will be filled with happiness that you have been born, I will also experience the greatest sadness at the same time for our little Raven. But Roman, I need you to know that however strong that sadness may be, it does not diminish my joy at your arrival.
Please keep growing, Roman. Keep kicking and pushing on my belly. Because even when it hurts me, its nice to know you're still there. We need you to keep on fighting, like you've been doing. Prove to the doctors that they don't know everything. They can't predict the future. For all we know, you are the healthiest baby ever to have existed. This is what I will try to picture in my mind when I think of you.
I love you already. Get here soon.
Love,
Mom
