one year ago

May 7, 2007. If I had kept a journal, that day surely would have been the most depressing entry of all my days, 26 years worth of days. That morning I woke up innocent. Blissfully naive. Unfortunately and stupidly confident. Truly believing all the contrived statistics that say once you have a heartbeat, you won't be miscarrying unless you're in that incredibly slim 2%- too tiny a number to even be considered real, laughable really. I drove downtown to the doctor's office excited to see our little one again, sure he/she would be wiggling about, more interesting than the creature we'd seen 4 weeks before. J and I waited forever for the doctor, reading In Touch, looking out the window at the steam rising off the street, eager to head out and over to Whole Foods, where I'd seen adorable natural onesies a few weeks before. I thought I would buy one as a celebration gift after my appointment.

Instead, the day became the one that cracked our surface, brought so much pain into a previously fortunate existance. The one that took away bits of my sunny nature and substituted some bitterness, a harshness that wasn't there before, a sadness that I just don't know that I'll ever entirely leave behind- a hole. I don't remember leaving the office. I remember crawling into the car, slumping into the seat, dialing my parents' phone number by instinct alone, and just wailing, wishing I was wrong, hoping they would make it better. I remember mom's tears, her shock. J's face, as he faked a mask of strength, pale complexion and watery eyes in contrast. His voice on the phone to his dad, a hushed voice, like he didn't want me to hear what he was saying, like I didn't already know. I felt empty, I felt robbed, I felt crushed beneath the weight of all my hopes and dreams and plans for our November baby. And then, the perinatologist's office, there for a second opinion I already KNEW wouldn't be any better, that had I been thinking clearly (thinking at all) we would have declined. Sinking to the cold tile floor as we waited for the doors to open, my head on my knees, the huge bellies too much for me to handle in the waiting room, being escorted to the privacy of an exam room to be signed in. Leaning against J as the world spun, my head spun, words like "social security number" and "primary OBGYN" bleeding together on the paperwork, foreign and meaningless to me. I wanted only my bed...my blanket...darkness...my baby. I wanted my baby. The baby still inside me, so still and lifeless on the screen, gummy bear arms and legs, vaguely human but so beloved. Gone. Without me ever knowing it. Gone while I continued to love, to plan, to share the news. I just kept murmuring "I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go home." Home, when I was there last, was happy, was safe. Where "if" wasn't a word that applied to babies...just "when".

A year. A year that has been the fastest and the painfully tortured, slowest year of my life. A year that aged me. A year that, despite my hesitation to tack anything positive onto this experience and turn this into some BS "on the bright side" posting (there is no bright side), will make me a better mother. A strong, thankful, gracious mother. Has made me a better friend. Has taught me who I trust and whose love is pure...has shown me who was never really there, not in the way I thought. A year that has shown me who J really is, his strength, his unfiltered optimism, his refusal to let me slip away into dark places, irretrievably. The limitless patience of his love for me, so unlovable in my misery. A year that has shown me the unshakable love of family, the instinctual, unquestionable support they offer, the safe place they hold in my world.

And as I sit here sobbing, American Idol blathering in the background (just get to it, already, we all know that stupid puppy faced kid is safe), Baby Boy kicks at my belly button. I imagine him saying "mom...you're okay! I'm okay! We're okay! More Sunkist!" I hate to let this day be one of sadness, because it somehow cheapens my love for this baby boy, makes me ungrateful, takes away some of the joy I should feel, the joy of a mommy to be, the joy that has been tainted by the fear, the memories, the tears of this past year.

That's all. I'm eager for 12:00am. A new beginning, this date no longer looming dark on my calendar. One day closer to THIS baby, to the peace he'll bring, the love he'll be born into. The other babies are forever loved. No amount of love lavished on this baby (and those I hope will follow) will detract from that. I hope they know.