I thought I'd be over it by now.
It's been a month, almost five weeks, and it wasn't like you were with us for long enough to really make a difference.
But you did.
Our lives changed when we saw those two pink lines. Six months of hoping, trying, crying, praying, culminated in a slender plastic dipstick, gripped tightly in my trembling hand.
"Honey, you did it!" I called from the bathroom. I carried the test into the living room, my smile so big I thought it'd crack my face.
His face reflected my joy and he held his arms wide, waiting for me to leap into them.
At that moment, everything changed. All the despair, the worry, the frustration that I'd felt for over a year slipped away, replaced by a bubbling euphoria that I thought I might never experience. We debated trying since our future was so uncertain, but I stubbornly insisted that we couldn't put our lives on hold. Now I finally had something to hope for, something concrete that wasn't affected by the outside world. My normal worries suddenly didn't seem very important; they were no longer the hinge in my daily existence.
Something more profound had filled my heart.
We were cautious at first. You're not supposed to tell anyone in the first couple months, but I couldn't contain my excitement. I called my mom while my grandmother was visiting, and through the magic of the internet and webcams, I watched my happiness spread to their faces.
One month turned into two, and my clothes were getting tight. It still felt surreal. Part of me didn't believe it had actually happened but I couldn't deny my growing belly. My hip-huggers found a new home in the back of the closet and I took up stock in long shirts and leggings.
The holidays passed and we started counting down the weeks – only two left! – until we could tell the world. After so many months of sadness, I was getting used to this constant state of elation. I spent hours online learning about everything I'd need to know, preparing myself mentally and physically for your arrival, which seemed so far away. My doubts and insecurities didn't seem as important as it had before you existed. The only thing that mattered was that you were here, you were real, and you were ours.
Then the blood came.
It wasn't much, but my heart plummeted to the floor. I knew it could happen, the odds weren't on my side, but that logic didn't stop the tears that streamed down my face and dripped onto my bare legs as I sat in the bathroom.
"Honey," I called from the bathroom. My voice was shaky this time. His shocked face mirrored mine and the frantic phone calls began. The doctor was on vacation, nowhere to be found. We ended up at a clinic where I had to wait hours before anyone could see me.
While you slipped away.
Finally, someone brought me into a room and confirmed what we already knew. You were gone. You were too small. There was nothing they could do.
More waiting. Something about me not being able to eat for six hours before they took you away from me. Then an IV, more blood.
A scary room with three men who didn't speak English, their masks concealing their faces. I'll never forget their eyes as I drifted into unconsciousness.
Waking up with my husband at my side, I knew the sadness in his eyes matched mine, and the ache in my heart was as heavy as his.
He helped me to the car and the awful day continued as we undid our good news.
I didn't want to eat. What was the point?
Two days into the year that was supposed to be the most important of my life, we lost you. While everyone around me was excited for a new beginning, I wanted nothing more than to turn back the clock, or rip away the calendar pages to this time next year.
The days crept by, turned into weeks, and now it's been over a month. It feels final now.
Not better, just final.