I wrote most of this last night, but couldn't finish and post, so the days are one off now.
34 weeks ago I flew back from the first ever YK. I was very tired since my flight got FUBARed, but I was also high on life and full of hope—I just met the coolest people in the country, all dedicated to the goal of taking said country back. Suddenly it seemed possible that November would bring change rather than disappointment. I have had enough of November disappointments.
I know it was exactly 34 weeks ago today because that same week my son was conceived. And exactly one week ago he died in my womb.
He was born last Wednesday, and we buried him yesterday. The little coffin was so small that either one of us could have carried it. We carried him together and sat there clutching it until it was time to let him go forever.
Last week is a blur, yet I can recount many pieces in detail. Everything before last Tuesday seems impossibly long ago. My parents flew in, and our friends surrounded us with more food and support than anyone should have a right to expect (but everyone should find when they need it). The most amazing person in all of this, though, has been my little sister. We always knew she was strong, but we had no idea she was either that strong, or that compassionate, or that thoughtful.
The hospital staff, nurses and doctors were so very good to us. The two nurses who changed back and forth over the 37 hours we were at the hospital, the doctors on the floor, my OB who wasn’t on call but came in to help and advise—they showed so much care and compassion. I can’t even begin to imagine how much harder the whole thing could be if you are surrounded by insensitive boobs. Our rabbi came in Wednesday morning, and it helped a lot to talk to her. She also contacted the funeral home for us. Before this we never had an occasion to consider how important and how hard the job of a funeral director is. I am still amazed that there are people who choose to do this work, and I am so grateful that there are.
There is really not much else I can say. I wish no one else to know the pain and heartache we now feel. But realistically, given how big this community is, I know that unfortunately there are many here who do. To you I say, I am so sorry. And given how big this community is, I know there are nurses and doctors, and rabbis, and funeral directors here—people who do the hard work of making our burden a little bit lighter. And there must be so many here who have brought food and booze, and just came to be there for your friends. Thank you to each and every one of you. There is simply no way to get through without you.