I’ve been thinking a lot about that week, lately, the week we lost her. Reliving the events with the benefit of hindsight, it continues to be unbelievable to me that this happened to us.
I almost didn’t even call the doctor, do you know that? I didn’t want to bother them. We thought it was not a huge deal. I remember that I decided to pack a few overnight things before we went to the doctor, because it seemed possible I’d be admitted for a little while, but I don’t think we actually thought it would happen.
And then when it did. We were so worried. So upset. So concerned. But also, okay, because it’s always okay, right? You do everything right, and you go to the doctor, and they admit you to the hospital, and in the end everything is okay.
I started a thread on the parenting forum, asking for mojo for this baby to stay put. But the thing is, I thought it might be miserable, and I cried about being in the hospital for probably a long time, but I don’t think I ever actually believed that she wouldn’t. Stay put. be okay.
Dan went to work, the next day. To work! The arrogance of it all, in hindsight, how immune we thought we were to the worst possible outcome.
It wasn’t really until the night of Day 3 that we began to consider that maybe we were the 2%. Before I thought, spitefully, upon hearing the “new baby” chime in the middle of the night, “well, isn’t that just nice for you to get to take your baby home.” Before I confessed this to Dan, who admitted he’d thought the same thing. I hated that chime. I’m not sure we’ll ever bring ourselves to ring it, even in the happiest of circumstances. It will always remind me of the woman who might be lying across the hall in the antepartum ward, slowly starting to realize that she might not be bringing her baby home with her.