Be Not Afraid

"You'll outgrow it," my mom used to say of my crippling and irrational fear of the dark.  By now we both know that's simply not true.  I'm 32 years old, and still sleep with a nightlight.

As the words to "Be Not Afraid," one of the hymns played at Gabriel's funeral, were sung at Mass during Communion yesterday, the tears flowed from my eyes as I recalled my little boy who knew no fear.  Cynics might say he was a baby, that he didn't know fear or any emotions, really, because his mind wasn't developed and in particular, Gabriel's anencephalic mind had sustained developmental failure and he was incapable of ever feeling any emotions.  But, you only had to be around Gabriel in those final hours to know that he was fearless.  There was just something about him that told you that he was not afraid.

My son was the bravest person I ever knew, and so I feel so inadequate now, an adult with a fear of the dark.  Thanks to Eden's arrival I find myself in at least semi-darkness more thank I ever have, lest too much lighting wake her and also keep me from coveted sleep.

Eden has been, to say the least, a challenge.  Most of the challenges were expected, and no different than what most parents face.  Interrupted sleep, crying for unknown reasons, and other newborn struggles were anticipated.  What I didn't expect was the difficulty I've had connecting with Eden.

Throughout my pregnancy with Eden, I never felt connected to her the way I did with Gabriel, a connection he and I shared from the moment I learned I was pregnant.  I suspected the distance was my way of defending myself against my fears that I would lose her too.  The trouble, now, is that I am still not completely convinced that she is here to stay.  I find myself just shutting down , especially when someone else is around to handle her.  I sense that she sees me as nothing more than her personal buffet, and it hurts.  With my defenses on red alert, and her carnal survival mode switch turned on, we are living in nothing more than a parasatic relationship, and I crave more.  Ironically, it is that nursing relationship, the one that is supposed to bond us, which seems to make it impossible for her to find comfort with me any other way.

This became quite evident when I went for my post-partum exam, Eden in tow.  She started crying in her carseat and I worried that we would have to excuse ourselves from the appointment, knowing that she refuses to be comforted simply by my arms.  The medical assistant offered to hold her during the exam, but I warned that her crying would quickly escalate to screaming and advised that it was best if we left.  When I agreed to give the assistant's plan a chance, I nearly cried when she was able to comfort Eden to sleep.  The assistant looked at me helplessly.  "I think she was just already tired."  She seemed to want to convey to me that I am not a bad mother.  Still, the thought crossed my mind, not for the first time, that I could walk out of that office and never see her again, and she would never miss me.  Anyone could replace me.

When the exam was complete the nurse practitioner said to me, "As a first time mother it can be overwhelming.  I see that you're feeling that way."

"I have a son."

"You. . .?"

"I have a son.  He had anencephaly."

"You have a son.  But he didn't make it.  So as a first time mother. . ."

I never see myself as a first time mother, I guess because I'm not.  I'm overwhelmed, yes.  I'm hormonal, too.  I'm also extremely conflicted, because people do shit like explicitly ignore my assertions that I was a mother to my son, who was real and alive too, and he's gone from this earth but not gone from my heart.  I know that people mean well when they tell me that Eden is here now, that this is my life now and she is its center, but the notion has not been so easy for me to adopt.  He should be here, an almost-three-year-old pain in my ass.  Gabriel should be clinging to the hem of my skirt, begging for attention when I am feeding Eden, poking at her just when I've calmed her, waking her from sleep with his noise.  His absence is felt just as his presence would be.

Everything about Eden seems so contrary to Gabriel. Her cries are a stark contrast to his silence.  Her eyes, with their surprising alertness, take me back to Gabriel's blank, blind stare.  Even her dark hair, covering her complete skull, remind me of the absence of Gabriel's skull, which was circled with blond hair.  And my inability to comfort Eden, and the fact that I am replaceable for her, reminds me of how Gabriel and I simply seemed meant to be.  He needed me, not quite as much as I needed him.  Together, we were fearless.

Eden doesn't need me.  That scares me.  That scares me more than Gabriel's impending death ever did.  I see in her my own strong will and determination, even now when she is only one month old.  I don't know how to love this independent reflection of myself, because I am so afraid of yet another unrequited love. As much as she resists me, I am still deeply in love with her, and I'm afraid she will never love me back.  I'm afraid she will break my heart.

I, ever the romantic cynic, remain dedicated to trying to earn her favor.  I continue to nurse her, although I hate it and don't want to. It's the only thing I can do for her that makes me special to her.

I continue to walk through the darkness for Eden, uncertain of what might be out there, even in my own living room.  I continue to hope that someday she'll appreciate the fears I had to face to carry and raise her, and I will be special to her.  I continue to hope that she'll learn to love me in return.  

Celebrating 10 Days That Changed the World, 2014

Last year in honor of Gabriel's 2nd birthday, I came up with 10 days of activities to commemorate his brief but special life.  The celebration was bigger than I anticipated, and I was able to find so much healing in the participation of friends and family through Facebook.  This year I look forward to another year of celebrating Gabriel, and life.

Happy Birthday, Gabriel - Tuesday June 10, 2014 - Wear your Gabriel t-shirt, and be sure to sign up for Gabriel's Magic Mullet Run, or volunteer to work on race day; the registration fees will increase after Gabriel's birthday.

Day 1 - Wednesday June 11, 2014 - Cupcake day!  Just like last year, we'll commemorate this day by enjoying cupcakes.  When Gabriel was 24 hours old, joining only 25% of anencephalic babies which live to be one day old, our family celebrated by having cupcakes.  Enjoy a cupcake on this day.

Day 2 - Thursday June 12, 2014 - "It was my pleasure."  As I handed Gabriel's tiny body over to the mortuary, the last words I said to him were "It was my pleasure."  I truly believe the opportunity to care for the sick, wounded, terminally ill, orphaned or abandoned, is our privilege.  From grandparents, to the handicapped, to stray dogs, on this day find a way to honor someone or some critter who you've been privileged to care for in their time of need and share with us on Facebook.

Day 3 - Friday June 13, 2014 - "Footprints."  Gabriel was known for leaving his mark on this world, not just with his resilient spirit, but with his big feet.  I was never a big fan of feet, until I recognized my own in my baby boy's.  On this day, find a way to leave your footprint.

Day 4 - Saturday June 14, 2014 - Gabe's Magic Mullet Run - Join us as a runner or as a volunteer at Gabe's Magic Mullet Run, so named to encourage people to be unafraid of the unknown or unusual.  If you can't be with us in person, try to find another local charity run to participate in on that day.  And sport your mullet!

Day 5 - Sunday June 15, 2014 - Father's Day - Although this day is to honor fathers, I ask that fathers our there take time on this day to give special thanks to their children.  They are, after all, our greatest gift.  I look forward to honoring both of my babies, and their fathers, on this day.  We were privileged to have Gabriel with us, contrary to our expectations, on Father's Day 2011, forever changing the meaning of this holiday for me.

Day 6 - Monday June 16, 2014 - Paradise - Those who have been following Gabriel's story know that he became a big brother this year, to a little sister named Eden.  Eden's name means paradise, and I have written of the kind of paradise that she brings, perfect in its imperfections just like her brother Gabe.  On this day, look for paradise in your everyday life, and share it on Facebook.

Day 7 - Tuesday June 17, 2014 - Blueberries!!! - Gabriel's blueberry bush, thought to have died but continuing to thrive, has become almost as "famous" as Gabriel.  It's come to symbolize his defiance of the odds.  Enjoy some blueberries on this day in celebration of life, and share with us on Facebook.

Day 8 - Wednesday June 18, 2014 - A Perfect Storm - When I think of the tumultuous, tragic loss of my son, and the struggles of caring for him during his brief life, I think of that time as a perfect storm.  Although this time was difficult and full of grief, Gabriel also brought me so much joy, and my love for him continues to grow, nourished by the storm.  On this day reflect on a difficult time in your life that made you stronger, your own perfect storm.  If you feel up to sharing, please do share with us on Facebook.

Day 9 - Thursday June 19, 2014 - Rainbow Day - The rainbow is a special symbol in the infant loss community, representing our hope and the promise that our storm will pass and give way to a new kind of beauty.  Look for the rainbows in your own life on this day, and share them on Facebook.

Day 10 - Friday June 20, 2014 - ANGELVERSARY - This is the day Gabriel's soul left his earthly body and moved on to be with our Lord.  We will do a balloon release on the Panorama bluffs in East Bakersfield at 6 p.m. Please feel free to join us, or to release a balloon on your own, in a symbol of our Gabriel's journey to Heaven where he continues to change the world.

Day 11

I woke to Eden's hungry squirming.  Although we've been working on getting her to sleep in her bassinet, I recalled that at about 4:30 in the morning I caved in and let her sleep on my chest. Since we've been home I've let her sleep with me every night.

It was a rough night. When I saw Marcos I had vague memories of him rescuing her sometime during the night.  Once again I had fallen asleep while nursing her, and set her in the bassinet when I nearly dropped her.  Marcos had to get her when her cries couldn't wake me from sleep.  Most moms would tell me not to feel guilty, that it happens, but I do feel guilty because I shouldn't have let it happen.

After feeding Eden I was able to get her to stay quietly in her bouncer seat.  I seized the opportunity to take a quick shower, at once relieved and frightened by her silence.

I am feeling blue but reluctant to admit it because the inevitable response will be that baby blues are normal, as if simply saying so makes the feelings go away, or makes them not real. I can't help feeling that my life is over, to which the common response is that life is just beginning.  Still, I mourn the changes in the life I worked hard to build over the last few years. As the shower water poured over me tears escaped my eyes.  But my new life permits little time for crying so I turned off the water.

Eden quibbled a bit when I emerged from the bathroom and I thought I missed my chance to have breakfast, but she soothed herself and I had a few more minutes.  I fastened the charm bracelet that I have in memory of Baby Cude around my wrist.  I wear it just a few times a year, generally in memory of the day I learned I was pregnant, Baby Cude's expected due date, or today.  Today is the anniversary of the day the miscarriage commenced.  Having a bowl of cereal seemed counterintuitive to my desire to simply sit and reflect on the bracelet's charms, but I had only a small window to eat before Eden would need something.

The last few bites of cereal remain in my bowl.  Eden needed to be fed and burped.  Soon, we will leave for the bank to open an account for the funds for Gabriel's run, to take place a month from today.  I am now a very uncoventional mother of three, and all of their needs are different, but my time still somehow has to be split appropriately among them.

I'm overwhelmed.  I've typed this blog almost entirely one-handed, knowing I should try to set Eden down, but unable to bear her crying today.  I never want to give her a reason to cry, even though sometimes I've let her cry.  I never want her to hurt, even though she will.  When I think of the risks I took when I feel in love with Marcos, when I fell in love with Eden, I still feel the visceral ache of the losses before them. There are days when I feel myself building a wall between myself and each of them.

Almost three years ago I comforted my son in his hour of dying, just ten days after his birth.  Every moment of my life since then has been informed by that experience.  I'm still discovering the ways that I am affected by Gabriel's death, from the way I love to the way I resist my emotions.  It's never been more obvious to me than on this day which Marcos and Eden have gifted me with, but which I am not sure how to accept.

Diaper changes.   Feedings.  Fussing.  Cuddles.  Tears.  Bitter.  Sweet.

It's just another day.

This is Day 11.

Eden Eliana Lopez - Paradise

On Saturday May 3, 2014, ten days ahead of schedule, Eden Eliana Lopez made her way forcefully into this world.  Her brief labor began at approximately 10 a.m., and after a quick visit to the cemetary to see Gabriel for good luck and intercession, we arrived at the hospital some time after 2 p.m.  Eden was born shortly after that, at 4:58 p.m. weighing 9 pounds, 11 ounces, and measuring 20 3/4 inches long.  She's perfect.

"Eden" is Hebrew, and means paradise, and is quite obviously a reference to the Garden of Eden.  The name was selected when I was 13, at the time more in honor of a favored character from a long-discontinued soap opera, "Santa Barbara," than in appreciation of my faith or the signficance of the name.  "Eliana" is also Hebrew, and means "The Lord answers our prayers."  It represents that whisper of my heart, sometimes so faint that even I couldn't hear it, that ember of faith that burned within me even in the darkest of hours.  The Lord has answered my prayers.

My house is a nightmare.  I was ill-prepared for Eden's arrival and her presence makes catching up difficult.  My files at work are not where I wanted them to be before maternity leave, as I closed them up on Friday May 2 expecting to return to tend to them on Monday.  I have a terrible case of PUPPS rash, a symptom of pregnancy and delivery I was unaware existed.

But I live in paradise.

This is not the Biblical paradise that witnessed the Fall of Man, innocent until that moment.  Quite the opposite, this is a paradise that has already known grief, and violence, and heartache. This is a paradise that feels the missing presence of Eden's brother Gabriel, deeply.  This is a fallen paradise, and it's beautiful.

It's not been lost on me that while Gabriel lived only ten days, which must sustain me the rest of my life, ten days were given back to me with Eden's early arrival.  She was here in my arms, giving me comfort yesterday, the 13 year anniversary of the assault.  She'll be in my arms this Mothers Day, the first of my four Mother's Days where I will have full arms.  Sometimes I cry at the flooding feeling of gratitude that I have for this beautiful child and her loving father, who moves me daily with his affection and love for us.  How did I get here?

The Fall of Man in the Garden of Eden is attributed for the pains of childbirth, and Eden's birth, though quick, was painful.  That pain was quickly forgotten when they placed my beautiful daughter on my chest and I could only murmur, "You're real."  I can't remeber now who said, "It's a girl." I remember the words.  I remember what I heard: "Welcome to paradise."

What Might Have Been

"So, you know anyone who wants to play softball?" Karaoke Chris asked one Thursday night as I washed bar glasses.  I'd been called in to cover the shift, and was happy to see Chris, who could rarely make it down on a Tuesday when I usually work.

"Maybe Timothy, but he is already on a co-ed team, and plays pool several nights a week, so I'm not sure."

"We're losing a few players this season." He listed his roster of drop-outs, most of them unrecongizable to me, until he said, "And I guess Bar Crush is moving back East so he's out." I paused and looked at Chris.  My mind re-wound. . .

It was the summer that my divorce was being processed.  Bar Crush and I were caught in this weird sort of limbo when I asked if he would mind if I came to one of the softball games.  The team, established before Bar Crush had ever joined, was sponsored at one point by the Wright Place, and many of the members were regular patrons.  

"That would be okay."  

"Okay.  So, I'll be there this week."

"Okay"

"Okay.  Bye."

"Bye.  Q, say 'bye.'"

"Bye!" And we hung up, the last word from his daughter causing my heart to melt and my lovestruck soul to fall a little deeper.    

Noelle and I went to the game.  She was a hit with the kids at the park, and I hardly spoke to Bar Crush as I was busy looking after Noelle.  When the game was over we headed to the car, and I could feel him on my heels.  He stopped me as I left the lot and poked his head through the window I had opened for Noelle.  

"You going to the bar?"

"Yes, I'm meeting friends after I take her home."  I thumbed at Noelle, whose tongue was hanging out in her silly way, and he patted her affectionately on her head.  

"I'll see you there."

"Okay.  Yeah.  I'll see you there."

I arrived first and sat with y friends.  I waved at the team and spoke with the briefly, but had no interest in sitting with a group of men so returned to my seat at the bar.  When I left that evening, I could again sense Bar Crush behind me.  

"It was nice.  Having you at the game was nice.  Seeing you out there was nice."  I nodded, and we departed.  At home I dialed his number, then instantly prepared to hang up and excuse myself later by calling it a pocket dial, when he answered.  We chatted for a bit.  

"The kids really liked you.  They were all over you at the game."

"They liked Noelle.  Kids love her."  After some small talk the conversation turned.  "I'm just trying to figure out what you want."

"I'm trying to figure it out too."

"I know you're not dating.  But someday you will.  I assume you'll want to date a few people, see what's out there."

"That's not my intention, to date a bunch of women.  I'm just. . . I'm just trying to figure it out."  

"I'm just waiting.  I'm waiting for you to figure it out.  I hope you figure out that it's me that you want."

A noisy "splat" interrupted my memory.  I absentmindedly looked about for the source of the noise, located it, and bent to retrieve the piece of my heart that had fallen to the floor, attempting to stay composed as I did.

"Oh.  Yeah.  You guys had a thing," Chris recalled.

"It was just a crush."  Rocco stirred inside of me, and I felt guilty for letting my mind wander so far back in time.  But even in my guilt I couldn't help but feel wounded that Bar Crush would leave town, I would never see him again.  I would be left with the impression that while to me, he was my bridge over troubled water, gently, cautiously, carefully tread upon with the hope of bringing him with me to the other side, I was just his stepping stone, left behind when he figured out what he was looking for. The fact that I had been hurt before made me temporarily relateable, but ultimately too much to handle.  I was just a rebound, and so I was resolute that he was just Bar Crush.

After all, I am no stranger to just being walked away from.  Sean put a bullet in his brain, leaving me to wonder for the rest of my life if he thought of me in those last moments.  My own husband moved across the country while I stayed behind to finalize our divorce.  I could spend a lifetime wondering what might have been.

What if I had fought harder?  What if I had reported them to the police?  What if I had felt my feelings in those first couple of years, instead of drinking them away?

What if I had taken that last phone call?  What if I had recognized the cries for help?  What if I had gone to check on him sooner?

What if I had taken more folic acid?  What if I had done what most women do when confronted with a diagnosis of anencephaly, and terminated the pregnancy even if by early delivery?

What if I had never walked into Charly's to submit my application?  Sean never would have walked into my life, and I never would have sustained the heartbreak of his death. But he never would have touched my life, either.  If I had never been raped, I never would have related to Sean the way that I did, he wouldn't have been able to draw me from my darkness, even while he was being pulled irretrievably into his own.

If I had never taken the job at Charly's, I never would have met Cheri, Karla, Donny, Elise, Lisa, Jessica, Blake, Lindsey, Rick, Lynn. . . even Marcos. . . the string of people who have made my life better by entering it.

If I hadn't gone on that first date with Ben, I wouldn't be his ex-wife today, but we wouldn't have had our son, and I can't even think about a life that had never been blessed by Gabriel.

What if I had never joined Match.com?  Or responded to that e-mail?  Or agreed to step outside of my comfort zone and go bowling with Marcos, who somehow found his way back into my lfe after our first encounter in that little bar years ago?

What if I the lesson I had taken from Bar Crush was to be more like him, emotionally unavailable, and prone to setting broken people aside when I was done with them?  What if I had learned to be more guarded?  Play hard-to-get?

When Marcos and I started dating he wanted to talk, he wanted to know about me.  And there was so much to know.  And he wasn't afraid of any of it.  If I had never met people who couldn't handle my raw emotions and collective traumatic experiences, I might not know how to value the person who loves me not in spite of them, but for the strength that they have created within me.

What if we had moved a little slower?  What if I hadn't gotten pregnant so soon?  Then we wouldn't be expecting our baby in three weeks, and that's a life I don't want to imagine either.

As I locked the doors to the bar last night for my last closing shift before maternity leave, I got the distinct feeling, as I did three years ago, that the next time I lock that door my whole world would have been changed. With a bittersweet, cautious, but abiding faith I find myself thinking about what might have been, allowing it to impress upon me how thankful I am for all that I have now.

The Perfect Storm

Gabriel was going to be my rainbow baby.

After I miscarried in May 2010, the positive pregnancy test indicating that Gabriel was on his way brought the color back to my world. I learned quickly that the rain hadn't necessarily disappeared when, on Baby Cude's due date and at four months pregnant with Gabriel, I woke up and immediately started crying at the memory of how that day was "supposed" to be. Gabriel had brought me hopes and dreams and a bit of sunshine again, but he hadn't "fixed" everything. It wasn't his job to fix everything. He was just a little, tiny baby, and that was his only duty. My duty as his mother was to love him and grow him, and in being able to do that for him alone, my world was brightened.

Then, like a clap of thunder, some doctor came storming into my world with her textbook explanation for the very complicated path that I was about to travel: My son, my rainbow, had a condition that was incompatible with life. A fatal condition. He would not live. He would die, shortly after his highly anticipated birth. And there wasn't a thing I did wrong to make him that way, but there also wasn't a single thing I could to to fix him, either.

What she didn't tell me was that I would somehow have to find a way to live. I would have to find a way to go on in a world where my children didn't. I would have to make my heart beat, I would have to will myself to function every day, and that every day would be matter of learning to go on without not one, but now two children.

She didn't tell me that my marriage couldn't sustain two losses in less than two years. She didn't tell me that this experience would push my husband over an insurmountable edge, and that he would never be the same and that he would never be able to be the husband and father that I needed him to be to continue in that marriage myself. She didn't tell me that what started out as a sincere, beautiful, mutual love would melt away, unable to endure this weather.

She could only predict a few things: That if my son were carried to term he stood a 25% of fetal demise before he was born; if born alive there was a 50% chance that he would die in one day or less; there was only a 25% chance that he would live longer than one day. She could only tell me in her clinical speech that I could expect a strom.

I was afraid of the cold and the ache, but I chose to stand in the rain. I braced myself for the storm and faced it knowing that although I wouldn't get to have a first day of kindergarten, or a high school graduation, or a lawyer or an MLB pitcher, or grandchildren from Gabriel, or his hand to hold on my deathbed, I would get to have experiences that I never got to have with Baby Cude. I would get to hold Gabriel. I would get to tell him, face-to-face, that I love him. I would get to hold him in his hour of need, and I would get to comfort him until his spirit left this earth.

I was promised that this storm would be lonely and sometimes unbearably painful, and still worth every moment. What a perfect storm I found myself wrapped in.

No one told me I would get to be that mother who got to keep her baby for ten days. No one told me I would get to bring him home from the hospital. No one told me he would feed, and poop, and smile. No one predicted his blond hair, his beautiful fingers, his perfect face. No one could make me believe that even after watching my son die a slow and struggle-filled death, I could feel such peace at the release of his soul. No one told me how my little boy would live 10 days and change the world.

Even as the storm raged on, even as I tried to adjust to life without my child and even as my ex-husband obliterated my hope that the marriage would ever produce another child, I was thankful for the rain. I was thankful for my perfect storm.

I took shelter among family and a group of friends that helped me want to carry on. One day an e-mail arrived in my Match.com inbox, like a ray of sunlight through the clouds. That e-mail turned into a first date, and a second, and then eventually a positive pregnancy test. My world began to fill in with color again.

As California faces a devastating drought, I cannot forget what it was like to live so long in the eye of a storm. When the physical world around me is dry and longing for water, longing for nourishment, can only be thankful for what I have weathered. Some people go their whole lives, and never get the opportunity to love like I have loved. Some people never have to get caught in the rain, but then, they never get to experience the rainbow.

Baby Glimpses

The signs for the boutique ultrasound facilities, Baby Sighting and Baby Glimpses and the like, pepper the town with the increased availability of the technology that allows parents to see their unborn child in advanced 3d and 4d ultrasounds. When a doctor will make expectant parents wait for a diagnostic exam, these facilities offer them the opportunity to find out RIGHT NOW if their child is a boy or a girl, if it has mom's nose, or dad's hands.

As my due date approaches I can see the appeal to knowing whether one is expecting a baby boy or a baby girl. The clothes and the bedding and even the strollers and the carseats are gender specific these days and while I am satisfied with our grey carseat, I suppose if Rocco is a girl having something a little more feminine might be nice. I've washed more green and yellow clothes than I've ever seen, and sometimes I would like to know if I should also wash the baby boy onsies I have collected over the years.

The glimpses I've had of my baby have been far more precious than what I would learn from one of those ultrasound boutiques. The first time I saw my baby's round, bright white skull I knew what I most needed to know - That I was not facing a recurrence of anencephaly with this pregnancy. When a specialist confirmed the absence of anencephaly by ultrasound I again asked to see that perfectly rounded head, knowing I would never again take for granted its presence in an ultrasound image. There was no part of my baby that I wanted to see more.

When I feel my baby's movements, when I see its tiny body parts protruding from within my belly, I catch a glimpse of his or her strength, his or her "aliveness," and it is all that I need to see. I know that this child is strong, strong like his or her big brother, but not limited by the absence of that piece of skull that I might not ever have appreciated until it was missing from Gabriel's head. In the series of ultrasounds I had for Gabriel I was able to see his long legs, his big feet, his broad ribcage - But I couldn't will the presence of the piece that would have changed the course of events of our lives, not with all the ultrasounds in all of the facilities available. And in the light of what I could never find for Gabriel, I know that boy or girl, brown eyes or green, favoring mom or dad, this baby has what I've come to want most for my child - A chance for an 11th day.

I find myself dreaming of a daughter, a little girl to dress prettily in fluffy clothes with fluffy bows, and share tea parties with, and have girls' days out with, and share girly secrets with. I dream of another son who will chase the dogs with endless energy and share my love for baseball.

I dream of my child's loud, audible cries. I dream of those first cries at birth. I long to be woken from my sleep by the cries of a hungry baby, rather than being snapped awake by the fear that my child has passed while my eyes were closed.

I am asked frequently how I will plan for my baby if I don't know its gender. How can I possibly be prepared? When Gabriel was born, I was unprepared to bring him home from the hospital. Our neighbor lent us her carseat, which Gabriel never rode in because I held him all the way home. We picked up diapers and formula as we needed them. He slept in my arms or on the couch beside me. Friends brought us medical supplies and even donated breast milk. Our home was stocked with love for this little boy who I did not expect to live for ten days and I found that somehow we still had everything we needed. I had everything he needed, because I had him, and he drove me to do whatever was needed to care for him. As long as we had each other, we had everything.

Slowly but surely the "necessities" are being checked off the list for Rocco's arrival. I'm privileged to be able to provide more material things for my child than many families get to do. I'm thankful to have Marcos, also prepared to care for our baby. Family and friends have been ready and willing to laud this baby with gifts, excited for this new life particularly because Gabriel's was so very brief. And it's lovely. The bedding and linens and decor and clothes and pretty little baby things are beautiful and I love to touch them and admire them and arrange them for Rocco and create the nursery that I've wanted for so long. Still, they are just things.

Even the gender reveal ultrasounds can't tell me what I need to know. I look forward to that moment in the delivery room where the doctor will say, "It's a boy!" Or, "It's a girl!" But the sound I long to hear most is this baby's first cries of life. I long to kiss the top of his or her head, and touch it gently and confirm once again its presence. I long for what I have so far only glimpsed: A life beyond ten days.