Recovery

Our daughter was brought into the world with so much love, so much support.  Not a single person left our hospital room with a dry eye (except the anesthesiologist who did my epidural, whom I’m actually glad didn’t have compromised vision).  I clung to nurses I’d never met before in absolute emotional anguish, as they held me and cried along with me.

We decided against an autopsy.  Medical answers wouldn’t ease our heartache.  Knowing precisely what had taken Coraline from us wouldn’t make the grief any easier to bear, only give us something to focus our blame, and eventually hatred, on.   Putting a definition would only give us words, medical jargon – it wouldn’t change the past or bring her back to us.  

After Coraline was wheeled away, they loaded me up with Ambien so I could pass out.  I felt so weak and helpless, I just laid there and cried while Matt held my hand, until I fell asleep.  They woke me a few hours later, to get me up and force me to use the bathroom.  Then back on the Ambien, cry, hold Matt's hand, pass out again.

The next morning the reality of it hit me in the face.  I wasn't at home - I was in the hospital.  It wasn't just the most terrible nightmare - it was real, and my belly - my baby - was gone.