Are we there yet?

Time has slowed to an agonizingly slow pace even as I am overwhelmed with how quickly everything is flying at me.

The wee hours of the morning are here, and again, I find myself typing instead of sleeping.

The heartburn, the random weeping, the lack of comfortable sleeping positions, the occasional sharp contraction. All normal pregnancy discomforts, all aiding and abetting the anxiety in keeping me awake.

I broke down recently, crying, to Lou. I missed Harper, I told him. It was both so hard and so easy to love her. What if I can't recapture that for this next baby?

I've begun to wonder a lot more about Harper's experiences in this world. Did she feel pain? Was she sad, scared, did she know when she was alone? Did we really make her happy, did we soothe her with our touch?

(Of course, she did, Lou reminded me. She wasn't shy about making it known when she didn't like something.)

Did it hurt, those last moments of dying? Did it help that we were there?

These are the thoughts that hit me when I least expect it, and leave me wide-eyed and thinking, deep into the night, when all I really crave is sleep.

Then there are the daily small minefields.

It happened again today - speaking before a group of Chinese women scientists about career issues and work life balance, I was barraged with kindly meant questions after the talk, "Is this your first?", "This is number 2?", "Another boy? Do you also want a daughter?"

Each question stung.

I answer these now reflexively, inwardly wincing because there's no good choice between answers that are not quite right and answers that are more than a casual interaction deserves.

It reminds me of the weeks after Harper was born and died when I would reflexively answer the question, "How are you?", which I discovered is asked dozens of times in the course of a normal day.

"Fine," I would say, "OK. Hanging in there."

Even when I was as far from fine as possible.

Maybe I should just print a card I could hand to people and walk away. It might say, "This is my third child - we have a four year old boy and a daughter we lost as a newborn. We would love to have a daughter but 1) have no desire for a third child, 2) are unwilling to go through the agony again of conceiving as carriers of a fatal genetic illness; and 3) are too busy being excited by our healthy and happy new baby boy on the way."

Sigh. I shouldn't gripe. The questioner always means well, it's not their fault they're causing unintentional pain.

And as impatient as I am to meet spawn, I'm not ready yet. Too much to do. Too many anniversaries lurking on the horizon.

While feeling the baby kick, a few days ago, Shea remarked, apropos of nothing, "I think baby Harper will be sad because she didn't get to meet the new baby."

Cue immediate tears in maternal eyes.

I stumbled on the answer. "I like to believe she'll still be with us in spirit," I told Shea, "We'll still remember her, she'll still be part of our family, even if she can't really meet the new baby in person."

Although I don't think he really understood what I was trying to say, Shea is looking forward to spring largely because he wants very badly to plant the seed-embedded paper heart sent to us by hospice in memory of Harper. "We need to plant Harper's seed," he tells me, at least once a week, fretting over whether the snow will melt and pondering where best to locate them. He is keeping her spirit alive in his own way.

That's my boy.

Good night, Harper bean. I'll be thinking of you on the day your brother is born and every day in between. Maybe that's spirit enough.