It's the first time we knew you about you, Luke. But we were so excited and so happy.
It was Friday January13th, 2012. And it was shocking to us how quickly you were conceived.
What's equally as shocking was how quickly you came and went.
Sometimes I kick myself for taking that test on Friday the 13th. How stupid, right? That's just stuff that's made out to be something in the movies. Superstition. I don't even believe in superstitions. But it's almost like I was jinxing myself when I'd written this in my journal that day:
I guess it's meant to be, ya know? Now...to get through the next 9 months. Fingers crossed it's without drama.Without drama. What on EARTH did I know about drama three years ago?
Three years ago, I was naïve to worst-case-scenarios. I truly thought the word "drama" meant some morning sickness and maybe gestational diabetes. I thought that Jeff having to change our insurance a month and a half before having our son was the end of the world. What if I have him early, I thought? What if there's some strange gap in coverage and they bill us for everything!? This would be the end of the world.
I never ever ever could have imagined that I'd make it 39 weeks with you, Luke, and walk out of that hospital without you. Not once did that ever cross my mind. Or anyone else's, for that matter.
The hard truth about stillbirth is that nearly no one can see it coming. It just drops on you like a bomb and you're left with the remains of your shattered hopes and dreams. There are rarely answers. No scientific test came back with anything conclusive about how your cord cut you off. There were no blood clots. No abnormalities. All we know is that you somehow cut yourself off from your cord. And you couldn't warn me or yell for help. You just slipped away silently.
Three years of hopes and wishes that will never become reality. I often wonder how this will feel in 10 years, or 20, or even 30 years. The should-have-beens have become easier to let go of, but the constant parallel reality I run--where in one life you exist, and in the other, your sister exists--I'm not sure that will ever disappear.
Three years ago, my biggest worry was that we'd just purchased Coachella tickets. How was I going to brave it through the hot desert in April while 18 weeks pregnant?! For sure I'd get heat stroke. Or cankles.
Sometimes I feel like such an idiot for believing that was the worst that could happen.
I wish somewhere, in the back of my mind, I'd reminded myself that the TRUE worst that could happen would be losing your baby. That Planet-My-Baby-Died existed and was real.
I wish we never became a statistic. An open book with an unwritten story.
3 years ago, things were so uncomplicated. But I didn't know how much love I was capable of carrying, then. I've come to find out, it's a lot. Things are the New Normal, now. Definitely not the normal I was expecting 3 years ago, though. I don't think I ever saw this Normal coming.
