It's been a year since my baby Sara died in my womb.

I've been thinking about it a lot because it's that time of year.  On last Thanksgiving weekend I felt the first definitive kick from my daughter.
About two and a half weeks later she died.
I remember searching in earnest for her heartbeat that morning in December.
I called her dad to say I needed to go to the hospital.
He argued he had a meeting or something and I said ok, I would find someone to watch the kids, but I was going to the hospital.  That's how he knew I was serious.
I called him from the hospital later and told him I would be having surgery.  I knew I would be going through the birth alone.

I called family. I lied to them that I was ok.

I found out that night I was pregnant with a little girl.  I named her Sara.  The hospital put a sign on my door, signifying I had given birth to a dead baby.  I was on the maternity ward and kept hearing the other babies crying in the hallways.

I came home as soon as I could because my son was desperate to see me.  He sensed something was wrong.
He wanted to know if there was still a baby in my tummy and I told him, "No. There had been a mistake and Sara was gone.  She's  buried in a childrens cemetary in Corpus Christi.

I was numb.  I thought life was unbearably unfair.  My daughter was dying.  My just held another dead daughter.

And my heart was heavy with grief.
It still is to some extent.
Always will be, I am told.


I  that wish that it never had happened, except that means I would never have had Sara at all and that's intolerable.
I just want innocence and happiness back. I want life to make sense for a change.

Maybe one day I'll find comfort in knowing amaris has a sister in heaven waiting for her. that's the only sense I can find in all of this.