We’re sort of at the point now where there’s not much new to say about losing our daughter. It’s sad, and every day, we’re just learning to live with that. I can’t imagine it will ever be okay, it just is. It’s something terrible that happened, to us, and our friends and family, and Amy. Our first child, she’ll always have died, in the most unfair way. We’ll always be parents to a child who was never really here as far as most people are concerned.
This past Saturday was supposed to be my baby shower. There aren’t many more milestones like that, dates indelibly etched in my mind as being something very, very different than what they are supposed to be. June 9th. My friend picked the date out months early in hopes that some of my friends who live across the country would have time to plan to attend. So, on June 9th, I was supposed to be 33 weeks pregnant, eating cake and celebrating with my friends and family this amazing child we were about to bring into the world. It might have been a pretty sad day, but a couple of my friends flew into town to see me, anyway, and we had a very nice day, anyway.
And I got to share Amy with them. I have pictures of her, things we got at the hospital, and I love those pictures and those things, fiercely. But they are also very sad, and looking at them is so bittersweet. Here is my daughter, whom I loved just like everyone says you will, more than I would have thought possible. Who I miss, more than I thought possible. I love those pictures though, anyway. I’ve never shared them with anyone who wasn’t in the delivery room with us, partly because I never want anyone to see them and think they’re awful. But mostly because I’m not really sure what is the best way to ask someone if they want to see pictures of your dead baby.
But they let me share her pictures with them, and it was sad, but it also made me happy. Thankful. That other people have seen her, her tiny face, her tiny fingers. That she’s more real, now, to someone other than me.