The Worst-Nightmare Club

Today it is one year since Lauren was murdered. Tonight there is a memorial at my church.  I'm going, of course.

I saw Lauren's mom, Mary, the other day.  Elsie and I go over there sometimes, to visit and talk.  It's always very last-minute and very low-key.  This time, the focus was on me and my recent loss.  I was telling Mary about that terrible moment, sitting in the neurologist's office, listening to the list of things wrong with my baby, the parts of the brain that were missing or compromised, the surgeries that would be needed to keep her alive, the hole that she would likely need in her stomach so that she wouldn't choke to death on her food, the various everyday risks to her life (eating, drinking, salivating, sleeping, etc.), and just the pain, all the pain and discomfort that she would endure had she lived.

It's an important part of this story because it explains why I'm not too depressed to get out of bed in the morning.  It explains why this outcome, the one in which our baby dies peacefully, comfortably, loved and safe in my womb, is the best possible outcome.  It explains why I'm okay.  Some babies weren't meant to make it.  Laurel is one of them.

"I can't even imagine how it must have felt, to hear all that." Mary told me.  "It must have been awful." 

"It was!"  I agree.  "It was completely horrible.  It was my worst nightmare come true."  And I looked at Mary, realized what I was saying; realized to whom I was speaking and added, "-- Well, one of them, anyway." 

Mary reached over and squeezed my hand.  "We're in that club, aren't we?"  She said. 

And we are.  We're in the worst-nightmare club. 

Mary has survived her first year without her daughter.  I think we're all a little amazed about it.  These little waves of grief that have been lapping at my heels all day are just ripples from Mary's and Malcom's tidal wave.  I hope they wash up safe when it recedes.