Happy 11 months, bean

The funny thing about having a blog is it allows you remember what was going on exactly a year ago.

I was living through an emotional rollercoaster, terribly worried about you, Harper. I was getting steroid injections, in anticipation of your early arrival, and switching to the high risk practice at Georgetown. I remember lying awake for hours at night, desperate to feel every little movement to help reassure me you were OK. Such a contrast to the nonstop kicking of spawn, which keeps me up at all hours in a completely different manner.

But even in those darkest hours, I don't think I ever really believed you wouldn't be here. Even at my most scared, I don't think I ever really believed you would die. Dying babies were not a part of my vocabulary then. If I did think of it, it was quickly dismissed as too worse a worse case scenario to happen.

But here it is, 11 months after you were born. And you're not here, because you did die. To this day, thinking that or typing that makes me flinch inside. I prefer hiding behind the softer euphemisms for death - we lost you, you passed.

Your father and I have begun talking about whether to have some sort of unveiling ceremony on your one year birthday. We will most likely be in the hospital, with spawn, on the one year anniversary of your death.

I strangely find myself jealous sometimes of those who have undergone stillbirth; they have only one date each month haunting their calendars.

(Lou and I recently sat down with a lawyer to talk about estate planning. In a rhetorical question, he said, "Most places a death certificate looks just like a birth certificate, do you know what the two differences are?" "Yes," I told him, "date and cause of death." I know this because of you, Harper - I was so struck with how nearly identical your birth certificate and death certificate looked.)

And my calendar does feel haunted right now. A bizarre mix of practical and emotional considerations.

April 18th, you would have been one, May 5th, the year anniversary of your death. In between? The birth of spawn on May 2nd, Shea's birthday on April 25th, your joint due date on April 26th.

Spawn's bris would be May 9th, and we've thought about shifting the celebration - bagels! lox! baby passing! - until the next day, Saturday, so we could celebrate with more friends. But May 10th is the one year anniversary of your memorial service, and I can't decide if holding a celebration that day would be fitting or dishonorable.

May 11th? Mother's Day. The day spent planting the azaleas from your memorial service in our yard. Azaleas that I'm afraid have not survived the winter.

I had a whole vision for this year - our 10th wedding anniversary, Lou's 40th birthday. We'd go on a big celebratory trip with Shea and with you, Harper, who would have been about the same age as Shea the first time we took him overseas.

Now we'll have a newborn.

Last week, I had my final ultrasound appointment. Spawn is still measuring perfectly. It's funny, bean, to think he weighs almost as much now, at 32+ weeks, as you did when you were born. He still has 3 or so pounds to gain. You never managed to do that.

Hello, spawn

But because of you, I feel like I know what he looks like. I remember what almost 5 pounds looks like, what it feels like. I can picture spawn because of you, Harper.

At this very hour, 11 months ago, I was figuratively climbing the walls of the recovery room, trying to figure out why I couldn't see my baby, waiting for news, any news, that you were OK.

It wasn't OK, of course. And here we are.

I wish I could clear my calendar of emotional landmines. I wish it was as easy as deleting an appointment in Outlook.

Will the pictures around the house be enough, bean? Will this blog be sufficient? Will your brothers grow up thinking of the sister who's not there as part of our family, or will you be too easy to shrug off, an artifact of their parent's distant path? Shea, at least, still remembers you, still talks about you, recognizes you in pictures. How long will that last? When there's another baby's pictures gracing our walls, will he be able to tell the difference? What will spawn think, through the years, of the sister he never met? Without whom he would not exist?

You will always be our second child, Harper bean. And, if nothing else, I will do my best to make sure we never forget you were, however briefly, a bittersweet beloved part of this family.