from Remnants by Various
"Chelsea" by Lindsie Christine
"Just one more push Lindsie, and it'll all be over," the nurse said flatly. Even though a baby was being delivered at that very moment, not a single person was elated. Instead, the delivery room was filled with the sounds of muffled sobs, monitors beeping and the nurse's orders. The doctor was no longer giving orders, he simply sat on his stool waiting for the baby to be far enough out of the birth canal so he could pull it the rest of the way out.
This was not how I planned the arrival of my child, this wasn't supposed to be happening. I squeezed my boyfriend's hand who now was sitting behind me, my body between his legs and my head resting on his chest. We sat in this position several times before. This was our cuddling position. He was able to hold me and cradle my pregnant belly while we watched TV, shared a bath or practiced our Lamaze. We never anticipated this to one day be the position in which our world would come crashing down.
I could feel his hot tears hitting my head; they were falling so quickly that he had ceased wiping them away. His hand shook as it clenched mine and his chest trembled. "I don't want to push," I screamed, the horror and fear thick in my voice. My throat was tight and began to feel raw from the excessive sobbing.
My body was so physically exhausted that it felt numb and heavy. My mind was racing with a million different ideas as I searched for a solution to change the outcome of this event. Nothing seemed logical, not a single thought felt 100 percent sure except one. As exhausted and out of control my entire being was at this moment, the idea of no longer proceeding to push felt the most logical. At that very moment, the idea was that if I were to stop pushing the natural urge I was feeling would stop completely. That if I could stop pushing and convince the nurse and doctor that it was all a huge misunderstanding, the baby would then remain with me. I knew logically though, that it wouldn't work. Regardless of my idea, I knew my body couldn't be stopped at this point. I had no choice, no say so, no ability to change any of it. There was no going back and no re-do, this was going to happen. I arched my head back, let out a low moan of grief and Jeremy kissed the top of my sweat-soaked hair.
There wasn't anything regarding my relationship with Jeremy that would ever be seen as conventional, although we had many people fooled with our cover of normality. Jeremy worked for the union by day as a carpenter and at night he would sell pot to friends and friends of friends.
It wasn't enough to ever make him rich or allow him to retire young, but it did allow us to have the nicer things, food on the table and savings in the bank. I had a job as well, an underage stripper in a sleazy bar. I never bothered to find a "cover" job, I was far too busy with college, a new baby and working until 4 a.m. to bother with something else to do. While Jeremy and I lived similar lives, both of us being single parents to his infant sons, we had nothing else in common.
Within weeks of meeting one another, we decided to throw caution to the wind and move in together. Since we hadn't planned on this living arrangement and it was a rather rash choice, we hadn't saved up or did much looking around for an ideal home. Instead, we had $800 in cash, his pay stubs and a piece of paper with a few addresses and phone numbers of available apartments. We were much more interested in playing house and being together to be bothered with reality. It wasn't much of a surprise that we were rejected from every apartment we looked at. Together after a few beers that night, we decided that we should just shack up together in his bachelor pad, as cramped as it might be, until we saved enough money to move elsewhere. I rushed out the next day to the dollar store and purchased everything I could to turn the dingy, cramped apartment into a home. To afford moving, Jeremy took on any extra hours he could. He took every page for pot he received, no matter how small and no matter what time. I cut back on my classes so I could take a part-time retail job making $4.75 during the day and then stripped at night. Within a few months we had enough money stashed in the mason jar under our twin-sized bed to leave the cramped apartment. Armed now with four months of his pay stubs and now three months of mine from my retail job, plus a few thousand in cash, we went on the hunt for the perfect place.
Our home had two bedrooms, a large living room that we could have easily fit the old apartment in completely and a kitchen with huge windows. I remember looking out the windows and thinking how I was going to learn to bake cookies and how his mother and I would spend holidays in there preparing a feast. We turned the second bedroom into a room for his son and my son. They were even born the same day. Since Jeremy had full custody of his son as I did with my own, we chose to raise the boys as brothers and have them share the room. Every night for the first few months we had the new house, I spent countless hours between my jobs and late night feedings into redecorating and making over our home with lavish Target furnishings. I could not have been any happier or felt any more stable.
Jeremy and I never discussed trying to get pregnant or even planned on a future pregnancy. We were far more focused on saving money, raising the two we already had and getting married. I was on the pill and by all means not wanting to get pregnant, so it came as quite a shock to find my period "missing." A week went by and there was no sign of it mysteriously showing up either. I remember sitting in the bathroom staring at my feet and saying aloud, "I'm pregnant."
I said this again and again both under my breath and aloud until I worked up enough nerve to tell Jeremy that my period was late, and that I was rather convinced that the reason it was late was because I was in fact, pregnant. I waited until it was time to go to bed to speak to him about it. My nerves were shot with just the thought of having to bring it up, because I already brought one child into the equation and when I told Jeremy's father, it didn't go over so well then. My fear was that Jeremy would be upset with me and in turn blame me for even the possibility of the pregnancy and that to punish me, he would leave me.
Our nighttime routine was once we put the children to bed, we would take turns giving each other back rubs. I opted to give him his first that night, I was far too nervous and knew if he went to rub my back he would notice how tense I was and begin asking me what was wrong. My only way to avoid this was to let him go first and then just slide the issue into a normal conversation after he was relaxed from the massage. I probably massaged in one place for a solid five minutes because I was sidetracked and deep within my thoughts.
Eventually he said, "Babe, I think my shoulder is fine now. You mind doing the other one before the skin gets rubbed off of this one?" Out of nowhere I blurred out, "My period is late and I'm pregnant, I'm so sorry." I said it so fast that he asked me to repeat it a few times before he could even make it out. By then he was already sitting across from me, and I was clutching the bottle of oil in my hands for dear life. He said nothing at first and just took the bottle from my hands and slipped his hands onto mine.
"Don't worry, OK? No matter what I'm going to always love you and I'm always here," and he hugged me. I cried forever and felt a heavy weight being lifted from my chest.
The next day Jeremy called around to find a doctor and made an appointment for a pregnancy test. Try as we might, during the drive to the appointment, nothing broke the serious mood we both were in. The waiting room was filled with booklets on STDs, pregnancy and how to quit smoking, and he began to pace back and forth. He would pick up a pamphlet every time he passed by the display of them, glance at one and then say some off the wall remark like, "Did you know you can get crabs from a tanning bed?" or "Damn! Genital warts look fucking nasty, here look!" Instead of pacing or reading, I sat in the hard wooden chairs and hugged my legs.
I was terrified of hearing it was positive for many reasons and none of those reasons had anything to do with the actual birthing process. The fear was about his reaction to it. He could have promised me the moon and stars, but I would have never believed he would stick around to help raise a child. Granted he was then raising his son as a single father and helping to raise my son that was by someone else, but on several occasions he had made it more than clear that he did not want to have another any time soon. And I didn't have the best of luck when it came to people sticking by me when anything heavy went down. After 20 minutes of nervous pacing, memorizing all the symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases as well as learning how to effectively quit smoking, we were congratulated on our pregnancy.
That night after dinner, he ran my bath and put the boys to bed. This was our routine every evening but I knew tonight we wouldn't be chatting in the tub together about music and friends. Instead it would be the "What are we going to do?" talk.
He came into the bathroom, turned off the lights, and climbed in behind me. "I love you, you know that, right?" he whispered as he kissed my wet hair.
"Yes, of course," I said.
"I don't care what you've done or where you've been, I love you. And we are going to make the best damn parents," he said as he placed both hands on my stomach.
I couldn't have been more wrong on my fears and assumptions of what Jeremy's reaction would be to our pregnancy. He was the master of making me feel at ease. He protected me, he loved me and he accepted me. No one before him had ever said the things he said. Everything he said or did changed my life for the better. As my pregnancy progressed, I quit my job stripping and my retail job to be a stay at home mother to both his son and my own. I busied my days by putting together furniture we purchased for our new arrival. Since we were both incredibly anxious and excited, we accumulated everything needed for a newborn by four months into my pregnancy. To say we were eager would be an understatement. Since both prior pregnancy experiences were unexpected and unfamiliar we chose to make this pregnancy one that we would cherish and do all the things we missed out on before now as a couple. Together we read every book we could get our hands on and every night he would read the baby a story at bedtime. My heart swelled with love as I watched and listened to him read "Goodnight Moon" to the boys and my belly. He would keep his face close to my stomach to make sure the baby was able to hear him. In our bathroom we kept a calendar, on it we would mark off each day as we counted down to the due date. After our evening bath, Jeremy would cross out a day with a pen.
Despite the fact that I was no longer working, our money situation wasn't an issue. If anything it improved. We were able to save money from not only cutting out day care, since I was staying at home, but also because his business of selling pot began to increase. Jeremy was probably the most reliable drug dealer in the history of drug dealers. He was always on time, always honest and answered every page no matter what he was doing.
Granted it was annoying to hear his pager go off at 3 a.m., but it was worth it because I knew we had to pay for the delivery somehow. With his increased business came increased drama. People we had never met or knew of became bitter rivals because of clients, as he began to unknowingly take away from other dealers' business. While he feared the ever-present threat of retaliation or being robbed for his drugs or his money, I was constantly worried he would be caught or even worse, killed. He tried to soothe my worries with assurance and promises. He purchased a security system for the house, he placed rods in each window to prevent intruders, you name it and he did it to calm my nerves. Neither one of us ever considered someone would harm us by us mistakenly allowing them into our home under some guise. We only worried what would happen if someone were to break in.
Unlike most weekends, Jeremy was called to work a mid-shift and since we were nearing the end of our pregnancy, he chose not to argue with his supervisor. We needed to make sure that he had off the two weeks after the baby's birth so he could help out with the boys, so any favor or request his supervisor had, Jeremy agreed to it. As usual when he left for work he would give the children and my belly a kiss goodbye. Once he was out the door, I gathered the boys and put them in the tub for their nighttime bath. A few moments after Jeremy left for work our door buzzer rang, which was odd. I walked out of the bathroom where the boys were busily splashing and soaking our floor and looked out the window. While I didn't notice any other cars in the driveway, I did notice Jeremy's car was still sitting there. Again the buzzer went off. "OK, OK!" I shouted into the intercom. My assumption was that Jeremy had forgotten something inside the house and needed to run up and grab it. I pressed the button that unlocks the security door, and headed back into the bathroom to finish giving the kids a bath. The bathroom was situated so I could see directly to the front door, and from where I was I could see that instead of Jeremy coming up the stairs yelling at himself about forgetting his keys, it was someone else, a complete stranger.
He was walking quickly up the stairs. He was tall, thin and had blond hair. He held a hammer in his hand and he was coming for me. He said nothing as he climbed the stairs and his eyes were fixated on me. Paralyzed in fear, I forced myself to stand and the adrenaline caused me to run for the phone. My eyes grew wide with fear, my heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears and my knees felt wobbly as I attempted to call for help.
He was headed straight for the bathroom. I turned around and rushed back toward my sons in the bathtub. I had to protect them. Slamming the bathroom door shut, I grabbed both of the children out of the tub. Their bodies were slick from the bubble bath and water. There was no lock on our door, but most of most of the time if you pushed hard enough, the door would jam. I placed the kids by the toilet as I pushed against the bathroom door as hard as I could. Our only exit was the small window that led to the roof and it was the dead of winter. I huddled the kids in each arm, mustering far more strength then I ever thought I had. Only seconds passed and I could hear him getting closer. The window was stuck. I forgot that Jeremy had nailed it shut a few weeks ago because the oldest boy learned how to stand on the toilet and open it.
"FUCK!" I screamed, and with that, the intruder came into the room. I began pleading rather than fighting back. I begged that he would just take whatever he wanted and let the kids be safe. I pleaded for my life as he tossed the children aside and grabbed me by my hair. He began dragging my eight-month pregnant, flailing body away from the children and out of the room.
I clutched my stomach with one hand and with the other reached to my head and nervously grabbed at the roots of my hair. I instinctively just wanted to lessen the pain of having my hair pulled.
"You can have anything you want here, just please, please, don't hurt the boys or my baby please, please, please", I sobbed and pleaded with him.
He had no reaction and said nothing.
His eyes were fixed on mine and his chest heaved with his angry deep breaths. He looked as if he was possessed by demons, there was no human behind his eyes. His hands and face increasingly filled with more hate as hey pushed and shoved me around the house. I was sure at any moment he would switch from pushing and shoving with his hands that were flattened to making fists and punching me. With the thought of him beating to me death crossing my mind, I froze like a deer in headlights.
I couldn't defend myself, I couldn't even scream as my fear had captivated every aspect of me. I was no longer thinking about survival or even my children, instead I was accepting the shoves and tears rolled down my face. I had no idea then at the time why I was so calm in those moments, looking back I realized I was accepting my impending death, I simply wasn't aware of it.
Without provocation, he pulled back and punched me between the eyes. The force knocked me off my feet and caused my body to turn completely around, sending me to the ground face first. Everything went black, leaving me unable to brace the fall.
I landed on my stomach with a hard thud, which caused me to become alert. I used what little adrenaline I had to attempt to get to my feet, but I was weak and barely conscious and was only able to turn over onto my back.
I grasped my stomach and screamed in terror. I just wanted it to stop. He looked down at me as I lay there helpless and writhing, examining his prey. I began arching my back in absolute pain, screaming one continuous noise that signified my fear, my pain and my hate for him, it was all I could do. I opened my eyes in between screams and fighting an impending black out, to meet with his gaze. He was cold and motionless standing beside and above me.
He paused, pulled his leg back and kicked me in the side of my stomach with everything he had. Each kick was fast and swift. I don't remember how many kicks there were, but what I do remember is how he would deliver one and stand back before the next. He kicked and kicked, hard enough to physically move me along the floor.
Then, he crouched down and touched my stomach. For years I refused to discuss that aspect of the beating. It was so sick and disturbing that my mind races with what his purpose of that moment was. His touching, in this caressing, almost loving, way coupled with the violent beating was so overwhelming it caused me to erupt with a scream.
I shoved his hand off of me and held my stomach. It was unexpected that I'd defend myself that it caught him off guard. His eyes seemed to focus a bit now, and he stood up and began to step back away from my pain, the bloody aftermath and me. The pain overtook me and I turned my head to the side and vomited into my tear-soaked hair. When I was no longer throwing up, I glanced up to find him running away from me. I believe to this day that when I shoved his hand away, it caused him to snap out of whatever spell he was under and in turn, save my life and the children.
He charged out of my house, slamming the doors with such force it shook the windows. I managed to crawl to the couch and find the phone. My hands shook and my body ached, I felt contractions and my fear set in. I dialed 911 and as the operator picked up, I realized my sons weren't with me and I shouted, "My kids!" and dropped the phone.
I paid no attention to the contractions and how far apart they were or the blood now running down my legs; I had to find my sons. The boys were huddled together between the wall and toilet crying. I lifted them the best I could onto my lap, wiping away their tears and calming them down. We sat on the floor hugging one another until the paramedics eventually arrived, breaking us apart and loading us into an ambulance together.
At the hospital, the children and I were separated. They were being evaluated for trauma and I was being wheeled into the labor and delivery ward. The nurses attempted to calm me down, assuring me that if I could manage to get my emotions under control, the contractions might slow down and prevent the birth from happening. Time was vital and I knew this, the baby growing inside me needed more time to develop its lungs. I could not, try as I might, stop the contractions.
Hours passed in that cold small hospital room. Nurses came and left, only to be replaced by other nurses and occasionally a doctor. Each one I would ask where Jeremy was and if anyone could reach him on his job site. No one could seem to locate him. Monitoring devices were attached to my stomach and a machine printed out paper that recorded my contractions. Each nurse would check the sheet and jot something down next to it. No one would answer my questions or allow me to see the paper.
Jeremy eventually arrived after a few hours. He was in tears and shaking so badly that I had to take both of my hands to hold onto his. I looked up at him from the bed, my IVs and monitors attached to what seemed like everything. I looked as horrible as I felt. He reached down to me and hugged me with such fear, love and care that it physically hurt me. He was holding onto me with all his might.
An ultrasound was ordered to find out the actual condition and stress the baby was in and also to find out if there was any internal bleeding. Because of our lack of insurance, we had only had one ultrasound and it was around the sixth week of my pregnancy. We hadn't had the one we wanted so badly to find out the sex of our child. I was far enough along now and able to get another ultrasound without being met with resistance, the ultrasound became bitter sweet.
As the nurse coated my stomach with the cold blue ultrasound gel, my emotions wavered because while I understood I would find out the sex of our child, I feared what the damage had been done. As the ultrasound grazed my bruised and battered stomach, the nurse quietly said, "It's a girl."
I smiled. Jeremy smiled and squeezed my hand. For a second we forgot the situation that brought us there and focused on the fact that we were having a baby girl. Our moment of happiness was quickly shattered as the nurse then motioned for the doctor. Jeremy looked at me, and began shaking his head.
"No... no... no," he whispered, to which I met with "Shhhh please please shhhhh." The doctor ordered a few different views of the baby then took the ultrasound wand in his own hands and began inspecting for what seemed like eternity.
"There is no indication that you have any internal bleeding. The baby itself seems to be healthy and the lungs look mature enough that she would only spend a very small amount of time here being monitored. That is if we are able to slow down the labor and you deliver within the next two weeks. However, your placenta has torn completely away from your uterine wall. What this means is that if you were to go through with a vaginal birth it's very likely that the placenta will be delivered before the baby is. This will cut off all the oxygen supply to her and put her at a very high risk for complications. The safest route for us to take is to perform a C-section when it is time for you to deliver. Regardless this is now a high-risk pregnancy and you will need to be monitored."
The doctor continued to explain the complications of the placenta tearing away as well as how they would attempt to stop my labor from progressing. He gave us statistics of how successful he was at preventing delivery from occurring prematurely, but his confidence didn't match his words. He ordered my monitoring for the rest of the night. His one final comment on the severity of the labor was that if my water were to break, regardless of the contractions and their timing, there would be no real way to stop it at that point. I would have to deliver immediately if that were to happen.
After I was wheeled into my room and given medicine to slow down the delivery, the police came to get my statement. The nurse advised them to keep it short since I was under a great deal of stress which wasn’t healthy for the baby. Jeremy was asked to leave the room so they could speak to me in private, but he refused to leave my side.
The male officer that was questioning me was with a female officer who spoke very little. It hadn't occurred to me until I saw her horrified expression that my face was battered and beginning to bruise from the beating. The questions seemed to go on forever and no answer I gave was good or clear enough for them to accept it and move onto the next. I was growing frustrated and Jeremy was growing angry as they persisted. Despite only happening a few hours before, I couldn't seem to remember many of the details. Everything seemed fuzzy and out of order. I felt drugged, dazed and ultimately like a failure for not being more helpful, as well as causing so much grief. Eventually the police grew tired with my inadequate answers and left abruptly. They gave me a card with my case number, numbers to call the following day and the name of the detective assigned to my case.
Quietly but not quiet enough, the female officer who said little while there muttered to my nurse in the hallway, "Make sure to call us if she or the baby passes away."
It was then that it set in what was happening and how bleak everything truly was. The situation wasn't as simple or as optimistic as the doctor tried to convince us. My stomach dropped at her words and my tears rolled down my face. I wanted to take the entire day and my mistake back.
Much later and out of nowhere my contractions began to increase. I couldn't figure out why now, while I was on an IV drip that was to slow down my labor, were my contractions so much stronger and longer. Each nurse that checked in on me had a different explanation for the cause of it. Some said it was an adverse reaction to the medication, others claimed I was exaggerating since they were still doing internal checks on my dilation and I wasn't dilating any longer.
Finally I convinced a nurse to stick around while a contraction came and to check the monitor while I was having one. As she stood by the machine and my contraction began to peak, my water broke. Bloody green fluid splashed onto to the bed I was laying on.
Her eyes met mine and no sooner than I had said, "What is happening?" both with fear and sadness in my voice, had she said, "The baby is in shock!"
Jeremy was asleep in the chair next to the bed. With all the commotion going on, he woke up and began firing off more questions than the nurse could answer. She disappeared to find a doctor, but before she was completely out of the door she demanded that Jeremy to keep me calm or it was going to cause the labor to progress rapidly.
As soon as my water broke my contractions increased to the point of being too painful for me to handle. I screamed, I cried and I panted, nothing was helping.
As Jeremy reminded me to breathe, to practice my Lamaze and to "hold on just hold on a minute," that's when it happened.
"I need to push," I said between sobs. I need to push I kept saying over and over.
By now the nurse and the doctor made it to my room and overheard me, "DO NOT push, Lindsie. You cannot push." She argued back. The nurse asked Jeremy to hold one leg while she held the other so that the doctor could examine my cervix to see if I in fact "needed" to push. The doctor nodded his head, as if to say "she's telling the truth" and with that the epidural was called off as it was now too late to do a C-section.
"Don't push, Lindsie, whatever you do breathe through it!" the doctor reminded me. My body was shivering as I attempted to hold back the urge to push the baby out. My legs trembled as I attempted to squeeze them together with hopes this would stop it.
Jeremy once again became the voice of reason: "I'm going to climb behind you like I do in the bathtub." And he did. I leaned my head back and quietly said, "I can't stop I have to push, please forgive me I'm so sorry."
Jeremy cried out with a deep anger and sorrow that I am still to this day haunted by. "Can't you motherfuckers stop this?" he shouted at the delivery team.
No one answered his questions.
The delivery doctor snapped on a different pair of gloves while the nurse placed my legs in a bent position. She nervously glanced at the contraction monitor and gave the side eye to the doctor. A few unfamiliar nurses walked in the room with warming lights and a clear plastic bed for the baby to be placed in. Everyone stood around not saying a word, only watching and waiting. There was silence as I grunted, attempting to work against my body.
"Lindsie, the placenta is coming out first, so I need you to push slowly. We need to get the baby out but very carefully," the doctor said.
"You can do this!" cheered the nurses, who crowded in closely to me and Jeremy now.
He whispered words of encouragement as he put his hands on my stomach. The nurse instructed him to gently push down on my stomach as I pushed out to help aide in a quicker delivery. They counted to 12 and I began working with my body now rather than against it. There was no time for an episiotomy, so I tore as I pushed. The pain was immense but nothing compared to my breaking heart. We cried as Jeremy pushed down on my stomach.
My daughter flatlined as I gave my last grunt and push. The placenta had come before her, causing her to lose what little oxygen she was getting by then. It was limited for the last few pushes as it were. Forceps, a suction and even Jeremy pushing on my stomach didn’t seem to help in delivering her. With each push I felt life changing and I wanted nothing more then everything to just stop, wake up and for this all to have been a nightmare.
Finally the doctor was able to pull the placenta out completely and reach the baby's head.
"Just one more push Lindsie and it'll all be over."
I found it strange that no one was waiting to see the baby.
The next bit is a blur. I pushed far enough that the doctor was able to pull my daughter the remaining bit of the way out. They didn't place her on my chest, instead they took her to a tiny baby bed and began attempting CPR. Between the nurses and the doctor I could see her tiny purple feet. They weren't moving. They pronounced her dead at 2:32 a.m., the same time I was born on May 21, 1978.
The staff consoled us as we sat together on the bed covered in sweat, blood and tears. We were no longer crying, we both sat silent hoping we'd hear her cry and we could embrace her. Instead the doctor stitched me up and the nurses bathed my daughter. They placed her in the outfit we picked out for her to go home in, and finally two hours after she was born, we held her. I took her small hat off and smelled her head and touched her hair. She had brown hair and the nurses placed a bow in it. I nuzzled her fat cheeks and kissed her over and over. Jeremy sat behind me, still holding us both.
"She looks like you," I said as I touched her tiny hand. "I want to see her eyes."
I sobbed as I now held her tight against my chest. She was tiny, just five pounds. Her body was limp and began to grow cold. I held her for hours in that room. I got up and rocked her for a while, crying the entire time. I examined her tiny feet, her little nose. I took it all in so that I could always remember her. I kissed her from head to toes and whispered, "Just wake up," until the nurses took her from my arms. A priest came to counsel us.
Instead of leaving the hospital with a baby, we left with an information packet on funeral costs, a card on who to contact about burial and a grief counselor's name. We went home to an empty crib, stacks of newborn diapers and broken dreams.
After the funeral, Jeremy and I had a hard time facing one another. While we never once fought, we slept in separate rooms. He cried and threw himself into finding the man that broke into our home, while I dove into depression and drugs to try and forget about it all.
It would be years before Jeremy and I would speak about what happened that December morning and how it left us broken. And I'm not sure if we ever could say enough. No parent wants to bury their child, but it's even more difficult when you bury a child whose eye color you never knew. We both have so many questions that will forever go unanswered. Being around each other makes those questions harder and harder to ignore. We chose to stay as far apart as possible so that we could both move on.
There isn't a single day that goes by that I don't think of her, that day or what could have been. When I'm alone at night I dream of her, and I always picture her to be an adorable 2-year-old girl with pigtails running toward me in our old kitchen. I'm not sure why my mind holds onto that fabricated image but it does.
In that dream I get to hold her and she kisses my nose saying, "Mommy, I missed you."
"Just one more push Lindsie, and it'll all be over," the nurse said flatly. Even though a baby was being delivered at that very moment, not a single person was elated. Instead, the delivery room was filled with the sounds of muffled sobs, monitors beeping and the nurse's orders. The doctor was no longer giving orders, he simply sat on his stool waiting for the baby to be far enough out of the birth canal so he could pull it the rest of the way out.
This was not how I planned the arrival of my child, this wasn't supposed to be happening. I squeezed my boyfriend's hand who now was sitting behind me, my body between his legs and my head resting on his chest. We sat in this position several times before. This was our cuddling position. He was able to hold me and cradle my pregnant belly while we watched TV, shared a bath or practiced our Lamaze. We never anticipated this to one day be the position in which our world would come crashing down.
I could feel his hot tears hitting my head; they were falling so quickly that he had ceased wiping them away. His hand shook as it clenched mine and his chest trembled. "I don't want to push," I screamed, the horror and fear thick in my voice. My throat was tight and began to feel raw from the excessive sobbing.
My body was so physically exhausted that it felt numb and heavy. My mind was racing with a million different ideas as I searched for a solution to change the outcome of this event. Nothing seemed logical, not a single thought felt 100 percent sure except one. As exhausted and out of control my entire being was at this moment, the idea of no longer proceeding to push felt the most logical. At that very moment, the idea was that if I were to stop pushing the natural urge I was feeling would stop completely. That if I could stop pushing and convince the nurse and doctor that it was all a huge misunderstanding, the baby would then remain with me. I knew logically though, that it wouldn't work. Regardless of my idea, I knew my body couldn't be stopped at this point. I had no choice, no say so, no ability to change any of it. There was no going back and no re-do, this was going to happen. I arched my head back, let out a low moan of grief and Jeremy kissed the top of my sweat-soaked hair.
There wasn't anything regarding my relationship with Jeremy that would ever be seen as conventional, although we had many people fooled with our cover of normality. Jeremy worked for the union by day as a carpenter and at night he would sell pot to friends and friends of friends.
It wasn't enough to ever make him rich or allow him to retire young, but it did allow us to have the nicer things, food on the table and savings in the bank. I had a job as well, an underage stripper in a sleazy bar. I never bothered to find a "cover" job, I was far too busy with college, a new baby and working until 4 a.m. to bother with something else to do. While Jeremy and I lived similar lives, both of us being single parents to his infant sons, we had nothing else in common.
Within weeks of meeting one another, we decided to throw caution to the wind and move in together. Since we hadn't planned on this living arrangement and it was a rather rash choice, we hadn't saved up or did much looking around for an ideal home. Instead, we had $800 in cash, his pay stubs and a piece of paper with a few addresses and phone numbers of available apartments. We were much more interested in playing house and being together to be bothered with reality. It wasn't much of a surprise that we were rejected from every apartment we looked at. Together after a few beers that night, we decided that we should just shack up together in his bachelor pad, as cramped as it might be, until we saved enough money to move elsewhere. I rushed out the next day to the dollar store and purchased everything I could to turn the dingy, cramped apartment into a home. To afford moving, Jeremy took on any extra hours he could. He took every page for pot he received, no matter how small and no matter what time. I cut back on my classes so I could take a part-time retail job making $4.75 during the day and then stripped at night. Within a few months we had enough money stashed in the mason jar under our twin-sized bed to leave the cramped apartment. Armed now with four months of his pay stubs and now three months of mine from my retail job, plus a few thousand in cash, we went on the hunt for the perfect place.
Our home had two bedrooms, a large living room that we could have easily fit the old apartment in completely and a kitchen with huge windows. I remember looking out the windows and thinking how I was going to learn to bake cookies and how his mother and I would spend holidays in there preparing a feast. We turned the second bedroom into a room for his son and my son. They were even born the same day. Since Jeremy had full custody of his son as I did with my own, we chose to raise the boys as brothers and have them share the room. Every night for the first few months we had the new house, I spent countless hours between my jobs and late night feedings into redecorating and making over our home with lavish Target furnishings. I could not have been any happier or felt any more stable.
Jeremy and I never discussed trying to get pregnant or even planned on a future pregnancy. We were far more focused on saving money, raising the two we already had and getting married. I was on the pill and by all means not wanting to get pregnant, so it came as quite a shock to find my period "missing." A week went by and there was no sign of it mysteriously showing up either. I remember sitting in the bathroom staring at my feet and saying aloud, "I'm pregnant."
I said this again and again both under my breath and aloud until I worked up enough nerve to tell Jeremy that my period was late, and that I was rather convinced that the reason it was late was because I was in fact, pregnant. I waited until it was time to go to bed to speak to him about it. My nerves were shot with just the thought of having to bring it up, because I already brought one child into the equation and when I told Jeremy's father, it didn't go over so well then. My fear was that Jeremy would be upset with me and in turn blame me for even the possibility of the pregnancy and that to punish me, he would leave me.
Our nighttime routine was once we put the children to bed, we would take turns giving each other back rubs. I opted to give him his first that night, I was far too nervous and knew if he went to rub my back he would notice how tense I was and begin asking me what was wrong. My only way to avoid this was to let him go first and then just slide the issue into a normal conversation after he was relaxed from the massage. I probably massaged in one place for a solid five minutes because I was sidetracked and deep within my thoughts.
Eventually he said, "Babe, I think my shoulder is fine now. You mind doing the other one before the skin gets rubbed off of this one?" Out of nowhere I blurred out, "My period is late and I'm pregnant, I'm so sorry." I said it so fast that he asked me to repeat it a few times before he could even make it out. By then he was already sitting across from me, and I was clutching the bottle of oil in my hands for dear life. He said nothing at first and just took the bottle from my hands and slipped his hands onto mine.
"Don't worry, OK? No matter what I'm going to always love you and I'm always here," and he hugged me. I cried forever and felt a heavy weight being lifted from my chest.
The next day Jeremy called around to find a doctor and made an appointment for a pregnancy test. Try as we might, during the drive to the appointment, nothing broke the serious mood we both were in. The waiting room was filled with booklets on STDs, pregnancy and how to quit smoking, and he began to pace back and forth. He would pick up a pamphlet every time he passed by the display of them, glance at one and then say some off the wall remark like, "Did you know you can get crabs from a tanning bed?" or "Damn! Genital warts look fucking nasty, here look!" Instead of pacing or reading, I sat in the hard wooden chairs and hugged my legs.
I was terrified of hearing it was positive for many reasons and none of those reasons had anything to do with the actual birthing process. The fear was about his reaction to it. He could have promised me the moon and stars, but I would have never believed he would stick around to help raise a child. Granted he was then raising his son as a single father and helping to raise my son that was by someone else, but on several occasions he had made it more than clear that he did not want to have another any time soon. And I didn't have the best of luck when it came to people sticking by me when anything heavy went down. After 20 minutes of nervous pacing, memorizing all the symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases as well as learning how to effectively quit smoking, we were congratulated on our pregnancy.
That night after dinner, he ran my bath and put the boys to bed. This was our routine every evening but I knew tonight we wouldn't be chatting in the tub together about music and friends. Instead it would be the "What are we going to do?" talk.
He came into the bathroom, turned off the lights, and climbed in behind me. "I love you, you know that, right?" he whispered as he kissed my wet hair.
"Yes, of course," I said.
"I don't care what you've done or where you've been, I love you. And we are going to make the best damn parents," he said as he placed both hands on my stomach.
I couldn't have been more wrong on my fears and assumptions of what Jeremy's reaction would be to our pregnancy. He was the master of making me feel at ease. He protected me, he loved me and he accepted me. No one before him had ever said the things he said. Everything he said or did changed my life for the better. As my pregnancy progressed, I quit my job stripping and my retail job to be a stay at home mother to both his son and my own. I busied my days by putting together furniture we purchased for our new arrival. Since we were both incredibly anxious and excited, we accumulated everything needed for a newborn by four months into my pregnancy. To say we were eager would be an understatement. Since both prior pregnancy experiences were unexpected and unfamiliar we chose to make this pregnancy one that we would cherish and do all the things we missed out on before now as a couple. Together we read every book we could get our hands on and every night he would read the baby a story at bedtime. My heart swelled with love as I watched and listened to him read "Goodnight Moon" to the boys and my belly. He would keep his face close to my stomach to make sure the baby was able to hear him. In our bathroom we kept a calendar, on it we would mark off each day as we counted down to the due date. After our evening bath, Jeremy would cross out a day with a pen.
Despite the fact that I was no longer working, our money situation wasn't an issue. If anything it improved. We were able to save money from not only cutting out day care, since I was staying at home, but also because his business of selling pot began to increase. Jeremy was probably the most reliable drug dealer in the history of drug dealers. He was always on time, always honest and answered every page no matter what he was doing.
Granted it was annoying to hear his pager go off at 3 a.m., but it was worth it because I knew we had to pay for the delivery somehow. With his increased business came increased drama. People we had never met or knew of became bitter rivals because of clients, as he began to unknowingly take away from other dealers' business. While he feared the ever-present threat of retaliation or being robbed for his drugs or his money, I was constantly worried he would be caught or even worse, killed. He tried to soothe my worries with assurance and promises. He purchased a security system for the house, he placed rods in each window to prevent intruders, you name it and he did it to calm my nerves. Neither one of us ever considered someone would harm us by us mistakenly allowing them into our home under some guise. We only worried what would happen if someone were to break in.
Unlike most weekends, Jeremy was called to work a mid-shift and since we were nearing the end of our pregnancy, he chose not to argue with his supervisor. We needed to make sure that he had off the two weeks after the baby's birth so he could help out with the boys, so any favor or request his supervisor had, Jeremy agreed to it. As usual when he left for work he would give the children and my belly a kiss goodbye. Once he was out the door, I gathered the boys and put them in the tub for their nighttime bath. A few moments after Jeremy left for work our door buzzer rang, which was odd. I walked out of the bathroom where the boys were busily splashing and soaking our floor and looked out the window. While I didn't notice any other cars in the driveway, I did notice Jeremy's car was still sitting there. Again the buzzer went off. "OK, OK!" I shouted into the intercom. My assumption was that Jeremy had forgotten something inside the house and needed to run up and grab it. I pressed the button that unlocks the security door, and headed back into the bathroom to finish giving the kids a bath. The bathroom was situated so I could see directly to the front door, and from where I was I could see that instead of Jeremy coming up the stairs yelling at himself about forgetting his keys, it was someone else, a complete stranger.
He was walking quickly up the stairs. He was tall, thin and had blond hair. He held a hammer in his hand and he was coming for me. He said nothing as he climbed the stairs and his eyes were fixated on me. Paralyzed in fear, I forced myself to stand and the adrenaline caused me to run for the phone. My eyes grew wide with fear, my heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears and my knees felt wobbly as I attempted to call for help.
He was headed straight for the bathroom. I turned around and rushed back toward my sons in the bathtub. I had to protect them. Slamming the bathroom door shut, I grabbed both of the children out of the tub. Their bodies were slick from the bubble bath and water. There was no lock on our door, but most of most of the time if you pushed hard enough, the door would jam. I placed the kids by the toilet as I pushed against the bathroom door as hard as I could. Our only exit was the small window that led to the roof and it was the dead of winter. I huddled the kids in each arm, mustering far more strength then I ever thought I had. Only seconds passed and I could hear him getting closer. The window was stuck. I forgot that Jeremy had nailed it shut a few weeks ago because the oldest boy learned how to stand on the toilet and open it.
"FUCK!" I screamed, and with that, the intruder came into the room. I began pleading rather than fighting back. I begged that he would just take whatever he wanted and let the kids be safe. I pleaded for my life as he tossed the children aside and grabbed me by my hair. He began dragging my eight-month pregnant, flailing body away from the children and out of the room.
I clutched my stomach with one hand and with the other reached to my head and nervously grabbed at the roots of my hair. I instinctively just wanted to lessen the pain of having my hair pulled.
"You can have anything you want here, just please, please, don't hurt the boys or my baby please, please, please", I sobbed and pleaded with him.
He had no reaction and said nothing.
His eyes were fixed on mine and his chest heaved with his angry deep breaths. He looked as if he was possessed by demons, there was no human behind his eyes. His hands and face increasingly filled with more hate as hey pushed and shoved me around the house. I was sure at any moment he would switch from pushing and shoving with his hands that were flattened to making fists and punching me. With the thought of him beating to me death crossing my mind, I froze like a deer in headlights.
I couldn't defend myself, I couldn't even scream as my fear had captivated every aspect of me. I was no longer thinking about survival or even my children, instead I was accepting the shoves and tears rolled down my face. I had no idea then at the time why I was so calm in those moments, looking back I realized I was accepting my impending death, I simply wasn't aware of it.
Without provocation, he pulled back and punched me between the eyes. The force knocked me off my feet and caused my body to turn completely around, sending me to the ground face first. Everything went black, leaving me unable to brace the fall.
I landed on my stomach with a hard thud, which caused me to become alert. I used what little adrenaline I had to attempt to get to my feet, but I was weak and barely conscious and was only able to turn over onto my back.
I grasped my stomach and screamed in terror. I just wanted it to stop. He looked down at me as I lay there helpless and writhing, examining his prey. I began arching my back in absolute pain, screaming one continuous noise that signified my fear, my pain and my hate for him, it was all I could do. I opened my eyes in between screams and fighting an impending black out, to meet with his gaze. He was cold and motionless standing beside and above me.
He paused, pulled his leg back and kicked me in the side of my stomach with everything he had. Each kick was fast and swift. I don't remember how many kicks there were, but what I do remember is how he would deliver one and stand back before the next. He kicked and kicked, hard enough to physically move me along the floor.
Then, he crouched down and touched my stomach. For years I refused to discuss that aspect of the beating. It was so sick and disturbing that my mind races with what his purpose of that moment was. His touching, in this caressing, almost loving, way coupled with the violent beating was so overwhelming it caused me to erupt with a scream.
I shoved his hand off of me and held my stomach. It was unexpected that I'd defend myself that it caught him off guard. His eyes seemed to focus a bit now, and he stood up and began to step back away from my pain, the bloody aftermath and me. The pain overtook me and I turned my head to the side and vomited into my tear-soaked hair. When I was no longer throwing up, I glanced up to find him running away from me. I believe to this day that when I shoved his hand away, it caused him to snap out of whatever spell he was under and in turn, save my life and the children.
He charged out of my house, slamming the doors with such force it shook the windows. I managed to crawl to the couch and find the phone. My hands shook and my body ached, I felt contractions and my fear set in. I dialed 911 and as the operator picked up, I realized my sons weren't with me and I shouted, "My kids!" and dropped the phone.
I paid no attention to the contractions and how far apart they were or the blood now running down my legs; I had to find my sons. The boys were huddled together between the wall and toilet crying. I lifted them the best I could onto my lap, wiping away their tears and calming them down. We sat on the floor hugging one another until the paramedics eventually arrived, breaking us apart and loading us into an ambulance together.
At the hospital, the children and I were separated. They were being evaluated for trauma and I was being wheeled into the labor and delivery ward. The nurses attempted to calm me down, assuring me that if I could manage to get my emotions under control, the contractions might slow down and prevent the birth from happening. Time was vital and I knew this, the baby growing inside me needed more time to develop its lungs. I could not, try as I might, stop the contractions.
Hours passed in that cold small hospital room. Nurses came and left, only to be replaced by other nurses and occasionally a doctor. Each one I would ask where Jeremy was and if anyone could reach him on his job site. No one could seem to locate him. Monitoring devices were attached to my stomach and a machine printed out paper that recorded my contractions. Each nurse would check the sheet and jot something down next to it. No one would answer my questions or allow me to see the paper.
Jeremy eventually arrived after a few hours. He was in tears and shaking so badly that I had to take both of my hands to hold onto his. I looked up at him from the bed, my IVs and monitors attached to what seemed like everything. I looked as horrible as I felt. He reached down to me and hugged me with such fear, love and care that it physically hurt me. He was holding onto me with all his might.
An ultrasound was ordered to find out the actual condition and stress the baby was in and also to find out if there was any internal bleeding. Because of our lack of insurance, we had only had one ultrasound and it was around the sixth week of my pregnancy. We hadn't had the one we wanted so badly to find out the sex of our child. I was far enough along now and able to get another ultrasound without being met with resistance, the ultrasound became bitter sweet.
As the nurse coated my stomach with the cold blue ultrasound gel, my emotions wavered because while I understood I would find out the sex of our child, I feared what the damage had been done. As the ultrasound grazed my bruised and battered stomach, the nurse quietly said, "It's a girl."
I smiled. Jeremy smiled and squeezed my hand. For a second we forgot the situation that brought us there and focused on the fact that we were having a baby girl. Our moment of happiness was quickly shattered as the nurse then motioned for the doctor. Jeremy looked at me, and began shaking his head.
"No... no... no," he whispered, to which I met with "Shhhh please please shhhhh." The doctor ordered a few different views of the baby then took the ultrasound wand in his own hands and began inspecting for what seemed like eternity.
"There is no indication that you have any internal bleeding. The baby itself seems to be healthy and the lungs look mature enough that she would only spend a very small amount of time here being monitored. That is if we are able to slow down the labor and you deliver within the next two weeks. However, your placenta has torn completely away from your uterine wall. What this means is that if you were to go through with a vaginal birth it's very likely that the placenta will be delivered before the baby is. This will cut off all the oxygen supply to her and put her at a very high risk for complications. The safest route for us to take is to perform a C-section when it is time for you to deliver. Regardless this is now a high-risk pregnancy and you will need to be monitored."
The doctor continued to explain the complications of the placenta tearing away as well as how they would attempt to stop my labor from progressing. He gave us statistics of how successful he was at preventing delivery from occurring prematurely, but his confidence didn't match his words. He ordered my monitoring for the rest of the night. His one final comment on the severity of the labor was that if my water were to break, regardless of the contractions and their timing, there would be no real way to stop it at that point. I would have to deliver immediately if that were to happen.
After I was wheeled into my room and given medicine to slow down the delivery, the police came to get my statement. The nurse advised them to keep it short since I was under a great deal of stress which wasn’t healthy for the baby. Jeremy was asked to leave the room so they could speak to me in private, but he refused to leave my side.
The male officer that was questioning me was with a female officer who spoke very little. It hadn't occurred to me until I saw her horrified expression that my face was battered and beginning to bruise from the beating. The questions seemed to go on forever and no answer I gave was good or clear enough for them to accept it and move onto the next. I was growing frustrated and Jeremy was growing angry as they persisted. Despite only happening a few hours before, I couldn't seem to remember many of the details. Everything seemed fuzzy and out of order. I felt drugged, dazed and ultimately like a failure for not being more helpful, as well as causing so much grief. Eventually the police grew tired with my inadequate answers and left abruptly. They gave me a card with my case number, numbers to call the following day and the name of the detective assigned to my case.
Quietly but not quiet enough, the female officer who said little while there muttered to my nurse in the hallway, "Make sure to call us if she or the baby passes away."
It was then that it set in what was happening and how bleak everything truly was. The situation wasn't as simple or as optimistic as the doctor tried to convince us. My stomach dropped at her words and my tears rolled down my face. I wanted to take the entire day and my mistake back.
Much later and out of nowhere my contractions began to increase. I couldn't figure out why now, while I was on an IV drip that was to slow down my labor, were my contractions so much stronger and longer. Each nurse that checked in on me had a different explanation for the cause of it. Some said it was an adverse reaction to the medication, others claimed I was exaggerating since they were still doing internal checks on my dilation and I wasn't dilating any longer.
Finally I convinced a nurse to stick around while a contraction came and to check the monitor while I was having one. As she stood by the machine and my contraction began to peak, my water broke. Bloody green fluid splashed onto to the bed I was laying on.
Her eyes met mine and no sooner than I had said, "What is happening?" both with fear and sadness in my voice, had she said, "The baby is in shock!"
Jeremy was asleep in the chair next to the bed. With all the commotion going on, he woke up and began firing off more questions than the nurse could answer. She disappeared to find a doctor, but before she was completely out of the door she demanded that Jeremy to keep me calm or it was going to cause the labor to progress rapidly.
As soon as my water broke my contractions increased to the point of being too painful for me to handle. I screamed, I cried and I panted, nothing was helping.
As Jeremy reminded me to breathe, to practice my Lamaze and to "hold on just hold on a minute," that's when it happened.
"I need to push," I said between sobs. I need to push I kept saying over and over.
By now the nurse and the doctor made it to my room and overheard me, "DO NOT push, Lindsie. You cannot push." She argued back. The nurse asked Jeremy to hold one leg while she held the other so that the doctor could examine my cervix to see if I in fact "needed" to push. The doctor nodded his head, as if to say "she's telling the truth" and with that the epidural was called off as it was now too late to do a C-section.
"Don't push, Lindsie, whatever you do breathe through it!" the doctor reminded me. My body was shivering as I attempted to hold back the urge to push the baby out. My legs trembled as I attempted to squeeze them together with hopes this would stop it.
Jeremy once again became the voice of reason: "I'm going to climb behind you like I do in the bathtub." And he did. I leaned my head back and quietly said, "I can't stop I have to push, please forgive me I'm so sorry."
Jeremy cried out with a deep anger and sorrow that I am still to this day haunted by. "Can't you motherfuckers stop this?" he shouted at the delivery team.
No one answered his questions.
The delivery doctor snapped on a different pair of gloves while the nurse placed my legs in a bent position. She nervously glanced at the contraction monitor and gave the side eye to the doctor. A few unfamiliar nurses walked in the room with warming lights and a clear plastic bed for the baby to be placed in. Everyone stood around not saying a word, only watching and waiting. There was silence as I grunted, attempting to work against my body.
"Lindsie, the placenta is coming out first, so I need you to push slowly. We need to get the baby out but very carefully," the doctor said.
"You can do this!" cheered the nurses, who crowded in closely to me and Jeremy now.
He whispered words of encouragement as he put his hands on my stomach. The nurse instructed him to gently push down on my stomach as I pushed out to help aide in a quicker delivery. They counted to 12 and I began working with my body now rather than against it. There was no time for an episiotomy, so I tore as I pushed. The pain was immense but nothing compared to my breaking heart. We cried as Jeremy pushed down on my stomach.
My daughter flatlined as I gave my last grunt and push. The placenta had come before her, causing her to lose what little oxygen she was getting by then. It was limited for the last few pushes as it were. Forceps, a suction and even Jeremy pushing on my stomach didn’t seem to help in delivering her. With each push I felt life changing and I wanted nothing more then everything to just stop, wake up and for this all to have been a nightmare.
Finally the doctor was able to pull the placenta out completely and reach the baby's head.
"Just one more push Lindsie and it'll all be over."
I found it strange that no one was waiting to see the baby.
The next bit is a blur. I pushed far enough that the doctor was able to pull my daughter the remaining bit of the way out. They didn't place her on my chest, instead they took her to a tiny baby bed and began attempting CPR. Between the nurses and the doctor I could see her tiny purple feet. They weren't moving. They pronounced her dead at 2:32 a.m., the same time I was born on May 21, 1978.
The staff consoled us as we sat together on the bed covered in sweat, blood and tears. We were no longer crying, we both sat silent hoping we'd hear her cry and we could embrace her. Instead the doctor stitched me up and the nurses bathed my daughter. They placed her in the outfit we picked out for her to go home in, and finally two hours after she was born, we held her. I took her small hat off and smelled her head and touched her hair. She had brown hair and the nurses placed a bow in it. I nuzzled her fat cheeks and kissed her over and over. Jeremy sat behind me, still holding us both.
"She looks like you," I said as I touched her tiny hand. "I want to see her eyes."
I sobbed as I now held her tight against my chest. She was tiny, just five pounds. Her body was limp and began to grow cold. I held her for hours in that room. I got up and rocked her for a while, crying the entire time. I examined her tiny feet, her little nose. I took it all in so that I could always remember her. I kissed her from head to toes and whispered, "Just wake up," until the nurses took her from my arms. A priest came to counsel us.
Instead of leaving the hospital with a baby, we left with an information packet on funeral costs, a card on who to contact about burial and a grief counselor's name. We went home to an empty crib, stacks of newborn diapers and broken dreams.
After the funeral, Jeremy and I had a hard time facing one another. While we never once fought, we slept in separate rooms. He cried and threw himself into finding the man that broke into our home, while I dove into depression and drugs to try and forget about it all.
It would be years before Jeremy and I would speak about what happened that December morning and how it left us broken. And I'm not sure if we ever could say enough. No parent wants to bury their child, but it's even more difficult when you bury a child whose eye color you never knew. We both have so many questions that will forever go unanswered. Being around each other makes those questions harder and harder to ignore. We chose to stay as far apart as possible so that we could both move on.
There isn't a single day that goes by that I don't think of her, that day or what could have been. When I'm alone at night I dream of her, and I always picture her to be an adorable 2-year-old girl with pigtails running toward me in our old kitchen. I'm not sure why my mind holds onto that fabricated image but it does.
In that dream I get to hold her and she kisses my nose saying, "Mommy, I missed you."
