One More Day

I'd hold you every second
Say a million "I love you's"
That's what I'd do with one more day with you

One more day, one more time
One more sunset maybe I'd be satisfied
But then again, I know what it would do
Leave me wishing still for one more day with you

--“One More Day,” Diamond Rio

Numbness. The heart and mind shut down to protect themselves from shock. The body carries on, fueled only by muscles and sinews and rote memory of a familiar routine. I washed dishes and folded laundry and packed my hospital bag as I was waiting to be induced. It came too quickly and too soon; I hadn’t even thought of what to pack and couldn’t remember what I had the last time I went in for Luc. People ready their hospital bag to prepare for a birth; I was preparing for a death. I couldn’t decide what outfit, newborn or preemie, would fit a 20-week fetus, so I threw in what would have been her coming-home outfit. I let my cleaners in and gave them their holiday gifts and made small talk with them with an unsettling knowledge that my baby was already bobbling dead inside me. Most other times, I curled up in bed, hiding from the wintry cold, seeking sleep like a drug. I’d savor Luc’s warmth as he lay in innocent sleep, wedged between Tung and me. We had planned to transition him to his own room in February, giving a buffer of a few months for the baby’s arrival. For now, I kept him close, thinking about how these were the last few days we’d spend together as a family of four.

I want a little girl born in summer 2018. I want to cuddle my newborn. I want a maternity leave where I get to enjoy my baby instead of making arrangements for her funeral. I want to go back to work with a sense of hope and refreshment, not despair and loneliness. I cry or want to cry at every meal, a lump in my throat where the food should have gone down, knowing that every bite I take is no longer going toward feeding my little girl.