Thirty-one weeks ago, we watched in a darkened room as an ultrasound technician pointed out the grainy shape of our eight-week-old baby. When we heard his loud, strong heartbeat, I cried. We were so happy.
Twenty-seven weeks ago, we sat in the same room while the same technician looked desperately for some sign of life. I don't think she wanted to say it, so I said it for her. We had Micah there with us, because the daycare was closed for snow, and that was a blessing, really. We needed him then.
Saturday was my due date. If things had gone differently, we would have a newborn right now. That's such a strange thought, because I don't know how we'd have done it. A small, guilty part of me is honestly grateful to have more time with Micah alone. I think about giving up my time with him to cope with a newborn, and...well...it's confusing. I'm sad, and it's going to be a very long time before I'm not, but I'm a little relieved too. I guess that sounds horrible, but there it is.
What a completely, unimaginably different life it would have been.
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