Happy Birthday, Baby. Forgive me.

13 years ago, my little girl was buried. I couldn't attend her funeral because I was in critical care. I was still in the maternity ward, and there was a black butterfly taped to my door so the nurses knew not to walk into my room and ask how my new baby was doing. My kidneys failed during the birth, and I was alone in the hospital as the rest of my family went to say goodbye.

I was 32-weeks along, and I hadn't felt much movement. As I am not an alarmist by nature; I wasn't all that concerned. Later in the week, when I went to my regular appointment, my doctor was very concerned because the baby did not look healthy. I went from specialist to specialist. By the time I went to my cardiac neonatologist, little Samara had died. I was sent to my doctor's office, and I stepped into the waiting room.

There was a waiting room full of pregnant women waiting to be seen. As tears streamed down my face, the nurses brought me down to the hospital to deliver. Without my consent, I was knocked out. At about midnight, I felt a huge, warm rush, and I was woken up by a nurse: She asked me if I wanted to hold my baby. I said no. I don't know why I said no. When I woke up in the morning, I asked for her. She had already been sent to the morgue. I never held her. I never saw her. And I never went to her funeral. I am filled with shame. What kind of mother doesn't put her baby to sleep?

I am still plagued with guilt as I never got to hold her and I never had a chance to be a mother to her. After nine days, I was released from the hospital with all of the wounds of pregnancy. My milk came in and I still had swelling. No one knew what to say to me or what to do, so I spent my time assuring everyone that I was fine, that I felt okay, that this must have been God's plan. My husband was unable to handle the pain, and he went back to traveling for work just three days after my release from the hospital. When I was alone, I was able to grieve, whatever that means. My husband told me that she had black hair, and that is all that I know. My only connection to her is the little, pink heart shaped tombstone. Happy birthday, Samara. Please forgive me.