October 16, 2009

This day, three years ago, is the last significant best day of my life. This day, I found out I was finally pregnant with my first baby -- the day I waited my whole life for. It's odd to think that it set my hell in motion. I was a week shy of 26 years old, but to be honest, had been a mother in my heart since I was old enough to play with dolls.

I can still remember my bliss and my utter excitement. I have never been happier than I was in that moment. Even my most beautiful moments with Jude have been bittersweet and tainted by the doings of my flawed body.  Regardless of anything, I miss that day three years ago. I miss thinking my dreams were coming true. I miss having Avery alive, so close. I miss the time when my life was normal, before grief ravaged and frayed every fiber of my being.

I wonder if there will come a time when I don't remember this day... When October 16th rolls around and I'm no longer aware of its significance. For now, I don't see that happening. I can't shake any of this. I feel like this monumentally beautiful day was taken away from me the moment we lost Avery. This day is sacred to me. Pregnancy is so sacred to me. It always was. And after what I've been through, it's intensified. In a world where it's seemingly fashionable to complain away pregnancies and take 'needy' babies for granted, it's proven unbearable.

But I live on like I always do. Remembering my girl on every little special day I can. Because that's all I have left of her. And it will never be enough.