Friday, May 13, 2011
She is eight.
Today was beautiful, it was wonderful: the one day of the year that is only for family, where we don't answer our phone and we dote upon each other and spend every single moment basking in each others' company. Today was especially kind because I have had to postpone some of the essential pieces of the anniversary day which make it hard: those where I ruminate over every detail of the night and day of her death and birth. Replaying these details are important to me, they are such a central part of my personal history and of hers, but today can't be the day. I will postpone this piece until after the delicious, successful, healthy birth of baby number five. The imminent, upcoming birth. Please may it happen soon.
I had spent months preparing for spending last night awake, worried and beside myself. The baby swam gently all night, as if aware, and each time I came to I felt the stirring and let myself glide back into dreamless sleep, conscious not to let my thoughts pass into eight-years-ago mode.
This is so different from most May twelfth-to-thirteenths, where I will watch the clock, and wonder when it happened.
Then this morning, Fiona woke up at 4:39.
Was this the time? The time when we arrived, and our world came crashing down as the flat line appeared?
It might have been.
And there is some power to holding onto today as her day, as the day I have thought of as doomsday, and to feel the baby moving in my huge belly and think, history is not repeating itself after all.
I am grateful that my Charlotte will still have her day as her own. As this day where we mark the sad beginning to such a beautiful family, and pay tribute to the little girl who never got to grow and be a part of what I hold so dear.
In a few weeks, I will weep buckets as I recall the details of this day. And for today, I linger in the moments of the warm spring sunshine, knowing that my sanity rests on my ability to hold onto what today has to offer. Charlotte is holding my hand, helping me see that this is okay.
I love you, baby girl... who is not a baby anymore.
Who would you be today?