I Remember

July 3 was harder.  Tuesday was hard.  But July 3 has been harder.

Memories today have been more like flashbacks.

July 3, 2012...

Elijah had spent the night with his best bud, Jeremy and Gina's son.  I remember driving to drop off Levi, Missy, and Seth at a friend's house before the ultrasound.  I got to the stop sign at the end of W Dr, and a song came on the radio.  'All of Me'.

I remember going through the Chick-fil-a drive through before my appointment.  I hadn't had breakfast, and, although my appetite was horrible during my pregnancy with Elliana, I knew that if I didn't eat, I'd feel absolutely awful.  I remember getting water instead of the coke I really wanted - because I was a *good mommy*, and good mommies drink their water when they're pregnant.  I remember seeing a young CFA employee who had Down's Syndrome.

I remember meeting Jason in the waiting room at my doctor's office.  I remember thinking about the 2 pairs of infant pj's we'd gotten just 10 weeks earlier - one blue and one pink.  I remember being excited about finding out which pair of pj's we'd be using.  :-)

I remember being nervous.

I remember being called back to the ultrasound room.  The tech was the same one who'd done our ultrasound of Seth in May (?) 2010.  She was nice.  Not very chatty.  I remember telling her that I'd probably ask a lot of questions.  I remember seeing all the important body parts and organs.  'This is the heart.'  'Here are the kidneys.'  'I'm measuring the head right now.'

'Do you want to know the sex of the baby?'

'It's a little girl.'  :-)

I remember being happy.  That might have been my last purely happy moment.  I've had happy moments since then, but... in the shadow of grief and aching.

I remember that moment.  Being happy.  Pink pajamas.  The cousin trio.

I remember sitting in another waiting room with Jason.  We looked at all of our pictures.  Pictures of our beautiful baby girl.  I remember texting family and close friends with the news:  It's a girl!

I remember moving to an exam room where we were going to see the doctor, just for a quick routine 18-week exam.

I remember the doctor walking in, a doctor I'd never met before.  She looked nervous.  She wasn't smiling.  She introduced herself.  Didn't really make eye contact.

'I've reviewed your baby's ultrasound, and I have some concerns.'

I remember phrases like 'a turned foot', 'possible heart defects', 'underdeveloped cerebellum', 'cleft lip'.

I remember crying.

Something about sending us over to the maternal fetal specialist, and discussing our 'options'.

I remember asking, 'What does this mean?  What are you saying?'  And the doctor's response: 'If she survives until birth, she may live a few hours, or maybe a few days.'

I remember the nurse handing me an entire box of kleenex when we left the office.

More crying.  We had a little time before we had to be at the hospital to see the maternal fetal specialist.  It was lunchtime, but neither of us was hungry.

I remember the tv in the maternal fetal specialist's office.  And the constant news reports about the death of Andy Griffith.

Another (very long) ultrasound.  I wanted to enjoy it - to be happy watching our little girl wiggle, but all I could think was, 'Is that really my baby up on the screen?  The broken one?'

Lots of measurements.  I think Jason asked lots of questions.  The tech was very patient.  Our tech, 'A' - we sort of became friends, I think.  :-)

I remember the specialist coming in and talking to us.  Telling us that everything we'd heard a few hours earlier was accurate.  That our baby girl's prognosis was poor.  That he suspected she had either trisomy 13 or 18.  Both fatal genetic disorders.

I remember not understanding.

The 'options' came up again.  I remember asking what the options were, hoping that there was a 3rd one that I didn't know about.  There wasn't.

And then, the decision about whether or not to have an amniocentesis done.  It was awful.  Just awful.

I remember walking out of the office back into the hospital hallway.  I looked down the hall towards the hospital entrance and saw a great big bunch of pink balloons.  A (happy) mom was leaving the hospital with her (living) baby girl.

I remember sitting in the car with Jason, crying.

I remember going to Qdoba.  I think it was around 3:30 or 4.  I hadn't eaten since breakfast.  But again, I knew that if I didn't eat, I'd feel awful.  Although, feeling worse than I already did was unimaginable.

I remember sitting in the car in the shopping center parking lot, knowing that I had to call my family and tell them.  I made 2 phone calls.  I said it twice.  I cried through both calls.  I couldn't bear to say it again.  And as much as I hated to not be the one to tell the other 2 members of my family, I had to let someone else do it.  I just couldn't.

I remember my head hurting so badly that I was nauseated.  Jason drove us to a nearby drug store and bought some tylenol for me.

I remember talking about whether or not we should drive home together in one car, or drive both vehicles back home so we wouldn't have to deal with getting the other car back home later.  We drove separately.  I drove straight home.  Jason went to pick up the little ones.  Elijah spent one more night with his friend.

I remember pulling into the driveway.  One of my sisters had ordered pizza and had it delivered to our house.  I remember the pizza guy pulling in behind me.

I remember walking up to the basement door and seeing a gift bag.  I could see a little girl's outfit on top.  And I knew.  My dear friend, Beth, had been one of the people I'd texted that morning with the 'it's a girl' news.  Beth had left the gift.

I couldn't take the sweet little girl things out of the gift bag.  It hurt too much.

I remember laying on the couch.  The kids coming home.  Trying to will the headache to go away.

I remember texting Beth, something like 'Need to see you tonight.  Good news turned into a nightmare.' She wrote back that she was at the emergency room with her son, who'd had a seizure, but that she'd come up to my house once they got back home.  That was a long night for Beth.

I remember writing an email to family and close friends, telling them what had happened that day, and asking them to pray.

I remember Beth coming over and sitting on the couch with me.  I remember telling her what I'd heard that day.  I remember her tears.  For a little while that night, I had no more tears to cry.

I don't remember going to bed.  But I remember needing sleep.  Needing to not think anymore.  Or hurt anymore.

How is it that a year has passed?  How is it that she was just here?  And now she's gone?

Nothing is the same.  Everything is different.

Except... Jesus.  He's the same.  He hasn't changed.  I don't get that - that He was good when Elliana was formed, that He was good when I was driving to that ultrasound appointment, and that He was good when we were facing our daughter's mortality.

I don't get it - that He was still good when she died.

I don't get it.  But I know it to be true.  It brings me comfort and pisses me off all at the same time.