One in a Million

Goodbye, Sweetest Heart

The bad news has begun. Baby B has died.

I have felt all along that Baby B was a girl, so I will take the liberty of using "she"--it seems wrong to say "it," as if her time was so brief and so insignificant that she was just an inanimate object. She was real, and she lived the most that she could, and she was precious to my husband and me.

She let go of life very recently, within the last few days. I still *feel* her with me. I still feel her spirit and though I know it can't last, I cherish her presence.  I know that she would have lived if she could have. Her little heart fought to beat, and she tried to catch up in growth. It is my own fault, for giving her worthless genes that could never sustain the life she deserved to have.

The other one, who I think is a boy, appears strong and healthy. I would show you his picture, but it also contains the image of dead Baby B, so it feels right to keep it private. And it pains me to look at it. Baby A continues to grow, and his heartbeat is strong--156 bpm. We even got to hear his heartbeat yesterday, a first for my husband and me. D keeps marveling at that, but I think that if we lose this little one, too, the memory of hearing that whoosh-whoosh-whoosh will only make the loss harder to bear. I have decided to delay my next ultrasound until right before we leave for the CVS. Ultrasounds are nothing for me but embryo death-watch, and the lead up to them is stressful and upsetting even when they turn out well. Of course, we don't want to travel all the way for the CVS if our remaining little one has left us, so we'll do a quick heartbeat check before we go.

Nearly everyone wants me to focus on Baby A, but I can't. Why does the drama of death outweigh the miracle of life? I don't know, but I loved Baby B, and in my irrational heart I want the doctor to be wrong, wrong, wrong. I want this to be a terrible mistake and I want to undo time and I want to make it right.

While I slept yesterday afternoon, in an attempt to delay the inevitable grief, my husband investigated local prenatal massage, and when I awoke he made me a mint Oreo milkshake. I couldn't bear to let him see how much his kindness made me cry. Later, my mother knew all the right things to say while I wept on the phone. We have a complicated relationship, as mothers and daughters often do, yet in the darkest times she is always just right. I told her that I couldn't do this anymore, couldn't lose my babies one after another, couldn't bear to claw my way out of the misery of miscarriage one more time. And she said: You can. You can. You are the strongest woman I know, and you can survive this, and whatever happens next.

So now I am moving, slow and coma-like, through the next two weeks. Ten days to ultrasound, 13 days to CVS, 14 days to results. At the end, the waiting and wondering will be over. We will either rejoice, or begin the long, slow process of loss and of grief. Whatever lies in store, I will be grateful that the limbo is over.

In Memory of Dorothy

My husband's aunt, Dorothy, died this morning. Her death was not unexpected--not since the diagnosis of lung cancer that crept up on us last spring. What was unexpected was how furiously Dorothy would prove her doctors wrong. She turned "two months to live" into seven months, amazing us all with her strength and perseverance. On Christmas Eve, the grave proclamation came that Dorothy would die that day, or the next. But she didn't. She lived for 16 more days.

Dorothy was a candlemaker by trade. We often joked about having an honest-to-goodness hippie in the family, but the jokes were born of respect and admiration. Her home in Tennessee was teeming with life, from the wild wonders of an abundant garden to the woodland creatures that paid her the ultimate compliment by making her backyard their home. From our cityslicker perspective, Dorothy's country existence seemed utopian. Her candles, crafted in a workshop in an old shed, were beautiful to behold: thick orbs of wax dyed in stunning shades; the pastel hues of a springtime dawn, the fire of a winter sunset, the cool blues of the ocean. And the scent! Heady hyacinths, rich pine needles, delicate roses. Dorothy was able to capture the essence of the outdoors in her candles and secret it away for later, to be savored in the dark comfort of indoors.

D and I have had our fill of grief for the last year. I am tired of grief, tired of its pervasive heaviness, tired of its mournful longing, tired of its impotent rage. But tonight, as I grieve for Dorothy, I also celebrate her. This unique spirit so full of calm and joy, who nurtured D as her own son and instilled him with such depths of kindness and love. This artist, this craftswoman, whose life helps me keep alive my own dreams of quiet country living dedicated to passionate work. The world was a richer and kinder place for having Dorothy in it. Can we ever ask for more?

I light one of Dorothy's candles and I remember her. May its warmth, its glow, its light reach her tonight, wherever she may be.