As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror this morning, I was amazed.  Aside from the dark line running down my abdomen, there is no evidence that up until two weeks ago, I was pregnant.  I should have been standing there this morning, marveling at how I didn't think my skin could stretch further.  Wondering how I was going to make it through the last few days of this pregnancy in the oppressive humidity we're experiencing.  Instead, I'm sitting here, wondering how I am going to make it through the next few hours without thinking of my sweet baby girl.

I've been muddling through the last couple of weeks with a lot of help.  My mom and sister were here, and they took over all of the mundane tasks that would distract me so I could rest.  So this morning I decided to distract myself with those chores.  I cleaned the bathrooms, ran the dishwasher, watered the plants I had forgotten about, and got rid of the dying flowers.  And now what?  I sit here, and I wonder what I should be doing and feeling and thinking.  I'm angry, and I'm grateful.  I'm bitter, and I'm loved.  I'm lonely, and I'm blessed.  I'm told these are all normal reactions.  Normal for who?  For the 1 in 164 (or 1 in 115, or 1 in some number that is slightly over 100, depending on where you look) women who undergo a stillbirth each year.

Up until two weeks ago, I didn't even think it was a possibility.  Not for me, anyway.  Jeff and I had gone through enough with this pregnancy.  A subchorionic bleed at 14 weeks (another event with low odds - roughly 1%), a car accident resulting in the car being totaled and chronic back pain at 20 weeks (odds of being in a car accident where the car is totaled? 1%, of course), and a number of other, smaller issues.  When I woke up on Sunday morning and Emma wasn't moving (after being relatively inactive the day before), I decided to call the hospital as a precaution.  Jeff and I thought it would be a quick trip in; we even made plans to go to a friend's lake house that afternoon.  An hour later we were being told that there was no heartbeat.  I had been to the doctor Friday afternoon and heard her strong heart - how had things changed so drastically in 36 hours?  

Intellectually, I know there's little I could have done.  It was discovered that I have a genetic clotting disorder that likely resulted in a placental abruption.  I know that.  But I still keep imagining that I could have gone in on Saturday afternoon.  Jeff would be working, and they'd whisk me away for an emergency c-section, and it would be scary and dramatic and touch-and-go, but our sweet baby girl would pull through.  I'm told this is a "normal" reaction, as well.  

Right now my thoughts are clearly all over the place.  I'm angry with myself for not being able to see more positives.  The outpouring of love and support I've received has been overwhelming.  Can I not be happy to have so many wonderful people in my life who will do anything for me?  My husband and I have grown closer through this tragedy.  Does this deeper love not bring me joy?  I think that there is a hole in my heart, and while my heart is fuller than ever of love for my friends and family, that hole and the pain it causes remains, and it is excruciating and dark and all-encompassing.

The happiness will come, I know that.  Grief is a process, I'm told.  The only way around it, is through it.  On the other side I hope to find peace and understanding.  For now I will search for solace in getting these thoughts out rather than holding them in.