Dear Hercules,

You, my sweet little boy, had love beyond belief the moment we knew there was a you. Your brother's were starting to get really excited to talk to you, feel you (although we had yet to feel you kick yet) and most of all love you. That came so naturally to them, to us all. Loving you. I couldn't wait until all of you could play together. I knew they would make the very best big brothers for you. I knew I was going to be a great mommy for you, because your big brothers had already taught me a lot about a mother's love and strength. And I knew how lucky you were going to be to have your Daddy. He did such a wonderful job taking care of your brothers and they are the sweetest little boys.

It was last night, at 10:37 pm that I knew that we had limited time left together with you safe and sound inside of me kicking. Jumping. Waving. Turning. Twisting. We raced to the emergency room. Your daddy drove so fast, he was scared just like I was. When we got there, we got to see you on the ultrasound. Waving and moving all bout. You had a strong heartbeat, just like every time we were blessed to see you. The doctor said he was really sorry, but there wasn't a lot he could do for us. He gave me some medicine. And then he used that scary "m" word again that I can't bear to use. Your Grandma Susan took me home and Daddy stopped by the store to pick up things to try and take my pain away.

For two hours, I felt you fight inside of me. I cried and screamed in pain. I've never known pain like that. Nothing gave me relief. I took three hot baths to try and loosen up my lower abdomen. I tried percoset, a heating pad and multiple positions seeking a way to tolerate the unbearable pain. Anybody could touch my stomach and feel that something wasn't right. I was in so much unbelievable and unexplainable pain. I would go through that pain and then some if it meant you were still safe inside of me. I would give anything to have you still safe inside of me.

We raced to the emergency room at 3:00 am. I closed my eyes, afraid of what they would show me on the ultrasound this time, but once again you looked so healthy. A good heartbeat and you were moving. The doctor's had no choice but to start pumping me with pain medication. I felt instant relief. From the time I saw you to when I made it up to my hospital room, I lost you. In a moment, your home had given up on you. Relinquishing your right to fight. I know you would have won. 

Your oldest brother, Austin, had named you. He picked out Hercules one night when he said goodnight to me and you. And I told him it was the perfect name until we could find out if you would be a boy or girl. You were a fighter, and had lived up to your name so many times already. I have no reason to believe this time would have been any different, had you been given the chance.

I felt your home come crashing out of me. I can't get over the feeling of your home. It's like it's on repeat, happening again and again. I just keep feeling it. I remember how much I cried for them to take it away from me. How angry your dad was when they didn't move fast enough. I don't remember anything past feeling this. I remember your dad holding one hand and your grandma holding my other. And I remember showing up outside the room for surgery. Your daddy was so strong and so brave. He found a way to comfort me, even though he needed it too. 

I woke up, and put my hand on my stomach. It's been my resting place since I knew you were in there. I liked thinking that maybe your hand was outstretched and we were somehow high fiving, or like we were touching through glass. I always rested my hand there, eager to be closer to you. I couldn't feel the little bump that had started to form in the last couple of weeks. I searched for it, but it was gone. I left my hand there, feeling my loss.

Your Daddy met me in my room and told me that we had lost you. He told me you were a boy and my heart broke a little more. It was one of those things I had looked forward to doing. Finding out if you would be a boy or girl. Your dad kept telling me you would be a boy, but we both knew it wouldn't matter as long as you were healthy. We were going to share that moment with your big brother Austin. It was going to be a surprise for him, a special thing because he had already started taking his role as big brother seriously. He would hug me close and whisper to me that he was hugging me and you. And he took really good care of me and you when I started getting sick.

I'm glad I know that you are a boy. I thought I didn't want to know, that it would hurt to much knowing. But your daddy was right. He told me he was thinking about whether or not to tell me, but then decided he wanted you to have an identity. That he didn't want you to be an it. You could have never been an it, regardless. You'll always be Hercules.

The doctor told me that there is nothing we did or could have done. From the moment you were born, your home wasn't ready to take care of you. That giving birth to you was not meant to be. I can't begin to wrap my head around how that is possible, when you were so perfect every time I saw you. It's going to take me a long time to make sense of it all. 

The limited time we shared was one of the happiest and most hopeful times in my life.  I wish that you could have been with us much longer than you were allowed to. I wish that a lot of things had happened differently. Tonight, I'm going to read Austin a special book the hospital gave us. Maybe reading it to him will help us both find some peace. It's called, “We Were Gonna Have a Baby, But We Had an Angel Instead.”

I miss you terribly. I hope you know how much you were loved and wanted by us. I'll keep talking to you when I feel like it's just all to much for me. I don't know if you can hear me or not, but it gives me comfort being able to talk to you like I used to.

I love you.