Where to begin - an update

It's been a long time. There is much to say. Too much. So much can change in 20 months...so much can change in a year...a half a year...a month...a week...a day...a moment.

We pursued IVF. We did it, took the plunge. We took out a massive loan and chased our dream. Four times. And it was on that 4th and final IVF round that our miracle finally found us. Our Evelyn. Our beautiful, perfect girl. Only, she was born too soon and though she fought so so hard, she was just too tiny. She lived 23 wks and 3 days inside of my womb and 8 hrs and 43 minutes outside of it. We will never, ever be the same.

I could spend every breath I take from now until my dying day trying to describe the level of pain and sorrow and devastation we feel, but it wouldn't be enough. It's never going to be enough. I went in to premature labor without cause and suffered a complete spontaneous placental abruption. There was nothing they could do to stop my labor and our Evie was born at 8:22 p.m. on August 15, 2016 via emergency c-section. She passed away at 5:05 a.m. the following morning. There are no words, only tears.

Evelyn was valiant in her fight for survival, stubborn and feisty. She was stabilized at one hospital and then airlifted to a higher level NICU an hour and a half away. I wasn't with her when she died but Jason was -- I said goodbye to my daughter via Google chat. Those images of her final moments are forever etched in to his brain and they haunt him but we know his presence was a blessing, as neither of us would have wanted her to pass on without one of us there with her. She died cradled in her daddy's arms, enveloped in love. Before she was airlifted, the NICU team wheeled her in to my recovery room so I could meet my daughter for the first time. I could not see her in her isolette but Jason guided my hand through the hole in the side so she could hold my finger. He says she did, though I could not feel it, her hand was so tiny. I wish I could have seen her face-to-face before she passed, but Jason did: he sang to her, spoke her name aloud to her over and over and told her how much we loved her, how cherished and beloved she was, encouraging her to keep fighting to survive. And her will was so strong. She kept fighting until she simply couldn't any longer and I told her over the phone that it was okay to let go, that we loved her so so much and always will, that we understood that she was tired and needed to let go. That was the hardest thing I'd ever done...until the following day when WE had to let her go, forever.

The NICU cut through red tape to allow Jason to drive her body back to the hospital where I was and where she had been born so I could hold her and finally see her beautiful face. We spent just short of 24 hours together as a family of three, holding her, singing to her and playing her music, rocking her, reading her some of my favorite children's books. Yes, she had already passed away but we needed to make those memories together. There are no words to describe how it feels to hold your deceased child, the one you had felt kicking the day before, the one who you had been dreaming about, wishing for, trying so very hard to conceive for over 8 years. There just are no words. The funeral director arrived on Wednesday, August 17 and it was then that we were asked to do the hardest thing we've ever had to do: say goodbye to our child, forever. I begged him not to take her, begged him. The finality of handing over our baby, knowing that when he walked out that door, that there was NO going back, that we would never lay eyes on her precious face in this life again, that her body would be reduced to ash...it is misery beyond comprehension, pain beyond pain. It felt as though my heart had literally been ripped from my body, and then shattered like glass. The sounds emitted from my mouth were other-worldly. I do not wish that kind of anguish on any one. Jason and I just held each other, sobbing and screaming for our girl. I do not remember much else about that day.

The level of devastation we feel is absolute. It took us 8 long years to find our miracle and miracles aren't supposed to die. And yet, ours did. 5 of my friends have gone on to have their children since Evelyn's passing and though I am relieved for them that their children did not perish as ours did, my heart can't help but ask, "Why not Evelyn, too?" Why did our child have to die? There are no answers and yet I keep asking. And I think I always will. I look for her everywhere, and find her nowhere. I wish I felt her presence but I do not. Perhaps the pain is too fresh. Her due date was December 9 and that is a mere 12 days away. I feel an emptiness that I thought could go no deeper.

There will be no more fertility treatments. There will likely be no more pregnancies. As we were given a 9% change of ever conceiving on our own, I cannot imagine it happening now. And if it were to somehow occur, by some other miracle down the road, I cannot imagine the fear we would feel in our hearts. Because going in to premature labor once increases the odds of it happening again. Because a placental abruption once increases the odds of it occurring in another pregnancy. I cannot fathom ever going through what we have again.

For the first time in almost 9 years, we are without a plan. We are heavily, deeply grieving for our girl and so short of funding it's absolutely impossible to imagine entering in to the path of adoption (though that will be our next step when we are ready). And it's all just too much. So much pain. So much sorrow. So much anger. Why Evelyn? Why us? Haven't we gone through enough? Wasn't it our turn for a happy ending? The nightmare was supposed to be over and somehow, it's just beginning. I look at her urn sitting atop her sunny yellow dresser and it's just all wrong. I cannot believe our child is in that cold, metal box instead of in our arms.

Life can and does turn on a dime. We have less control than we ever thought imaginable. And it is terrifying. Terrifying to look towards your future and not be able to envision how it will unfold. To know what your heart desires but be so uncertain as to how it will come to pass. To know that you will spend every day of your life missing your child because they are a vital part of you that is now gone. To be haunted by what has happened and not be able to change the outcome. To feel like a piece of you is missing and know that it will likely always feel that way, although mercifully not as acute. To know that with every family photo we take in the years that lie ahead, there will be a beautiful face absent from the rest. I've never been so scared, or felt so hopeless.

And yet a part of me knows --deep down-- that hope will surface again one day. I know this because I know that Evelyn would never want us to spend the rest of our days in misery, missing out on our one precious life and I know this because I promised her we'd grieve for her as healthfully as we can, and I have no intention of breaking that promise. I know this because our new mission in life is to honor her memory as often as we can, and lying down and giving up would never be what she would want for her parents. We just have to allow ourselves the time to heal, and though it will be a lifelong process, it is a journey we must take. One day, one step, at a time. I miss my girl with every breath I take and with every beat of my heart.

Yes, so much can change in 20 months, a year, a half a year, a month, a week, a day, a moment. So very, very much.