Lost

This is the hardest thing I have ever had to write. I know that I don't have to write about it, but to not do so feels like I am not honoring what has happened. So here goes . . . .

I will remember how resigned we were. Then I remember how surprised we were less than24 hours later.

I will remember how we cried, and thanked God, and asked him to watch over us.

I will remember how excited Lori was, and how Jay took the credit. And how we credited Dozen cupcakes as being the secret ingredient.

I will remember how nervous we were about waiting for the numbers. And how euphoric we were at how good, how high, how positive they were, both times.

I will remember Sandi being speechless when I told her, how she cried tears of happpiness for us.

I will remember plotting to tell my Mom, and how she hugged me so tightly when when finally did.

I will remember feeling that maybe, just maybe, our luck had changed, and that this would finally be our year.

I remember thinking that Christmas would be so much more special, and not hurt this year, like it did last year.

I remember Kirsten's constant reassurance, and laughing about how "everything will be punctuated by a nervous swipe." I remember thinking it I was insane, but being glad I could share the experience with her, 3000 miles away.

I remember how good it felt to have the anger, the frustration, and the sadness finally begin to fade away, and maybe this time for good.

I remember realizing that it only takes one.

I remember the excitement and joy on the face of the guy I thought I'd wind up marrying, when I told him the news. How happy he was for me, and how happy I was for him, and how much I liked meeting his wife. And how happy I was to be married to my husband instead.

Then I remember trying to quell my fears about the ultrasound. And I remember trying to shrug off those nerves, and trying to draw upon my long-advocated advice of "just fake confidence" when I climbed up on that table.

Then I only sorta remember getting the bad news that she was too tiny. And I barely remember my husband helping me to the car, whimpering "this can't be happening again" along the way. But I remember waiting, the whole car ride home, to wake up from this nightmare.

And I remember our doctor trying to be supportive, but getting us prepared mentally, at the same time. And my husband taking these phone calls because I just couldn't.

And I remember trying to be positive, through the fear. And going to work the next day, in order to keep myself busy.

And I remember how scared I was, when the cramping started. And how I knew. I knew. I knew. I didn't want to know. But I knew.

I remember the doctor's office immediately springing into action, taking me seriously, putting a doctor on right away, helping me to come up with a plan, should the worst happen.

And I sorta remember driving to the office to do more bloodwork, and telling myself I had to keep the tears out of my eyes, so I didn't crash and kill us both, just in case there still was a chance.

I remember us going home, and how the cramping got worse. And how when we looked at each other, I saw the tears in my husband's eyes.

And I remember him kissing my tummy, as we tried to say goodbye to her, but knowing it might be the last moment we were a family, together. And I know I will always rememebr it as the most beautiful, and most tragic, moment of my life. Ever.

I remember the three of us laying in bed, holding on to each other, caressing her through my body, whispering to her, and to each other, as the sun went down.

I remember all of the endless praying, reminiscent of last time this happened, in which I made all sorts of deals with God, if he would just spare her, if he would just come through for us, for her. I remember our wonderful priest telling me it wasn't my fault, that I didn't cause it through any action or inaction, and that sometimes God steps in when they are too sick or too tiny to make it on their own.

I remember the test results the following morning, confirming the worst. I don't remember all that much from that day, just that the physical pain got worse, wracking my body. I know that I took one of my husband's leftover percocets to get through the night. I remember wanting the pain to subside, but yet knowing that when it would be over, she would be gone from me, forever.

I remember my father, never prone to emotion, jumping up to embrace me when I walked into the room, and holding me as these awful sobs escaped from my mouth. And how he stroked me head.

I remember that the people at the hospital were so kind, so sympathetic, so supportive. The OB's from our practice, the nurses, the anesthesiologist, all were so amazing. How we were glad to hear that they would be able to do some tests on her, and maybe, just maybe, give us some answers as the the painful "Why, again?" that hangs out there. I remember how the process seemed almost cathartic, and brought me some peace.

I remember thinking that I can't go on, and that I don't want to. I remember telling my husband this, and how it scares him to hear those words from me, but knowing I would have to go on, for him. Just as he needs to go on, for me.

I remember being shocked, even distrubed, by the sounds the I make when I start to sob, and thinking that they must be unique to grief so deep.

I remember being cognizant, repeatedly, just how strong my husband is, and how that would surprise most people. And how I hate that he is my soft landing from the highest of falls, but am constantly aware of how much I need him to be that for me. He helps me to remember that she is not in pain, that she is with God, and that she is happy.

I remember it all. I am not trying to forget. I couldn't. I won't. It's just so gutwrenchingly hard to remember it all at once. And I just wish it wouldn't hurt, forever.