If I am still for too long, or alone, or quiet, the sadness comes over me like a wave. I think about how many weeks along I should be, how close we should be getting to meet her, and how I never will meet her the way I planned.

Do you ever look back and wonder, “How did I live through that?” This is definitely one of those for me. I remember holding her, and how my husband had to hold me up when the nurse came to take her away. I remember how we stood over her, with his arm around me, and my hand on my IV stand like the saddest little nativity.

Am I numb? Sometimes I feel like I’m not behaving appropriately, but I suppose there’s no right way to do this. Its one of those paths we must walk somewhat alone, even if our most fervent wish is not to.

It seems so innocuous when I think about it like that, but to be honest, all it does is weigh me down. I just think about who I was before she died, and if I will ever fully get back to being that woman.

Losses in the past have colored who I’ve become, but never been something I couldn’t move past. I’ve never felt like something that I so desperately want is so far out of reach.

So when my arms ache because there is no baby for me to hold, or when my breasts leak and I find myself actually crying over spilled milk, I clutch at my torso and imagine my daughter’s blood inside my body with me.

Later, at the funeral home, as we looked at urns that fit in the palms of our hands, I turned my tear-streaked face up towards my husband and whimpered, “I wish it had been me instead.”

I screamed and clawed at myself, and it was Grace who managed to bring me back down to earth, back inside of my body, so that I could face what was to come.