December 12th

December 12th. It's a day that changed me in so many ways. On the morning of Saturday, December 12th, 1998, I officially began miscarrying Kevin's and my first child. I had been spotting for several days prior, but my OB wasn't willing to call it a miscarriage just yet. But on that morning the spotting became too heavy for me to believe that this baby would survive. The miscarriage was confirmed the following Monday. The grief I was feeling was incomparable, yet I buried that grief in preparation for a holiday Open House that Kevin and I had planned at our home for that evening. I know that may sound cold, that you may wonder how I was able to function to prepare all that food, and get the house ready for nearly 30 guests, but it actually really helped to be so busy. It allowed me to not think about what my body was doing to me. How it was betraying me. And to not dwell on the thoughts of "what if..." What if I'd never get pregnant again? What if this was my punishment for the "choice" I made nearly ten years earlier? So I cooked, and I didn't have to think. It makes me chuckle to think of how I identified with Izzy and her muffins from Grey's Anatomy. Sometimes it is so much easier to focus your energy somewhere else.

Around 8:30, the evening of Saturday, December 12, 1998, I received a phone call from Seattle, WA in the midst of our Open House. When I first saw the number on caller ID, I almost didn't answer the phone. After all, we were having a party, and I would just call Dreama back the next day. But then I decided to talk to her, I wanted her to know about what was going on--that I had gotten pregnant, and that I was having a miscarriage. So I went upstairs to my bedroom, but when I answered the phone it wasn't Dreama on the line. It was Rick. Her boyfriend. And he was saying something about how she had died. I didn't know what he was talking about. I thought he and Dreama had put together some prank to make me feel bad that we hadn't spoken for a few months. But then he got through to me when he started crying. This wasn't a joke. And he detailed the events of her final week, as I sat there dumbfounded, speechless, uncomprehending. How could a vibrant, amazing 28 year old just die so suddenly? How could the person who I had shared so much of my life with during the previous ten years just be gone? How was I ever going to make it through this day?

Obviously, since I am typing this blog entry 8 years (eight YEARS?!?) later, I managed to survive that day through God's grace, and my husband and family's love and support. And I am a stronger person because of it. I have been blessed in so many ways the past eight years--3 healthy, beautiful children, several new close friends and a new best friend. But each year on this day I feel a little twinge as I think about what might have been. I wonder who I would be if things had worked out differently on this day in 1998. And I feel regret that I didn't get to share these years and these blessings with my friend Dreama. I really miss her.