Ifs and Might-Have-Beens

Twelve weeks and six days.

Today was the day that, in my last pregnancy, I woke at two in the morning in terrible pain. It turned out to be labor pains, and the both long-dreaded and long-hoped-for event had arrived. Dreaded, because obviously I was about to finally lose my baby and could no longer pretend that somehow the doctors had gotten it wrong. Hoped for, because I desperately wanted to avoid surgery as a way to 'complete' the failed pregnancy. The particular surgery they wanted to do ran risks of inflaming another condition that I have, and I was willing to do nearly anything to avoid that.

If those events had not happened, if the pregnancy had not failed, I would be seven months pregnant now instead of three, and I would be preparing to have a baby in November. Instead, I am preparing, albeit tentatively, for a springtime baby. I love Quinn, and I miss her, and I will never forget her. But I will also never forget that her loss made it possible for this other baby to exist. Quinn's potential will go unfulfilled in this world, and her brother or sister will never replace her. But she has, in her own way, shaped the future of our family.

When we buried Quinn, both a few short months and a lifetime ago, we stood by her grave, looked out to the sea, listened to the waves and wept together. We spoke to her spirit, told her that we love her, and invited her to come back to us in another form. I said to Martin that if our next baby had a strong love of the seaside, perhaps that would be a sign that Quinn had accepted our invitation.

Someday, assuming I get the luxury of conversing with the baby that I'm carrying now, I hope to find a way to tell him or her about the older sister that s/he didn't get to meet...in a way that won't be frightening or upsetting. I will ask for advice about this from the other women in my loss group. Quinn deserves to be remembered...by all of us.