I didn't give her a bath.

August 17, 2023

Day 2,491

I never gave her a bath. 

That thought came to me this morning while I was driving to work. That thought comes every August 17th. 

Bathing my babies was one of my favorite things to do. I loved to take care of them by washing their hair and their tiny bodies. I would sing songs to them while I dried them off and brushed their hair. We spent a long time in the bathroom every night. 

I never gave River a bath. And that thought haunts me every August. 

I was afraid to unwrap her blanket. I was afraid I would hurt her. I was afraid of her smallness. 

When I think back to that one August 17th, I try and remember the ways that I did take care of River. I held her. I smelled her. I watched her. I handled her carefully to loved ones. I napped with her. 

I try to take care of her still. I unfold and refold her blankets. I organize her little things. I look at her hospital bracelet. I look at her pictures. I buy her a cake and pretty flowers. I think about her all day. I wonder about her. What is she doing in heaven? What does she look like? What would it feel like to hold her once more? What would it feel like to smell her again or see her smile? 

Grief? It's an empty hole. An amputation. I recently read that grief never leaves us. We just sort of grow around it. That makes sense to me. Time doesn't heal wounds. It only lessens the feeling of the initial shock. The grief remains but we learn to build our lives around it. 

Twelve years ago, she was born. I had one day with her. Then a nurse took her away from me, and I never got to hold her again. 

Every year, I wonder what to write about her. I wonder if I should write anything at all. I worry that even the memory of River isn't safe with some people. 

But then I thought this: 

Why wouldn't I write about someone who changed my life forever? 

I didn't give her a bath. 
But I sure loved her. 

Thankful for River today and every day.