I am holding it together as much as I can. Surrounded by people, we are back at our friends’ home while Steve is on the road. It’s unbelievable to me that less than a week ago I sat on this couch, lay on this bed, holding on to my hope, holding on to my belly, to my baby’s life. Now I am empty though my body still looks full. I shower and don’t recognize myself. The body of a pregnant woman who is no longer pregnant.

I see something in the mirror and get closer. Two perfect bruises where they clamped my skin open to pull Benjamin out. I don’t remember that from my first Cesarean but they must have been there. I am afraid to lift my belly and look at my incision. I want to throw up.

It’s healing well. My body is amazing. I look away and slowly, achingly, put clothes back on.

“How are you doing?”

Everyone asks. Every time they see me or talk to me.

I no longer know how to answer.

In a week, your sister will turn three and we will have a party. We will celebrate her life because we need to bring light to the darkness. she is our bright light and I know she will feel the effects of this, somehow, forever.

I send flowers to the doctor, to the nurses in labor and delivery who took such good care of me, who let me into their hearts. I cancel my appointment with the perinatologist. Why? the voice on the phone asks. My baby died.

My doctor calls to check in. He’s just received the flowers. I already know what he thinks of me. I know that over the last 5 months of ups and downs we have touched his heart. He leaves a message, calls it an impossible situation. I sob.