30 weeks, 4 days

That's how far I'd be if I were still pregnant. I know I should stop counting. Can't seem to let it go, even though it hurts. The bloggers who got pg when I was pregnant, and then after, are getting to the point (and beyond) where I was when I lost my sons. I had occasionally been going to their sites, but I don't think I can do that anymore. My local friend who's pregnant is 18 weeks and change. (At 18 weeks, I had just a little bit of spotting, my first in the pregnancy -- not to worry said the doctor). I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to see her, talk with her.

I'm kind of a freak when it comes to dates and anniversaries. I remember the first everything. If not the date, then the season, the time of day, the weather. I remember everything.

Except that night. I remember my sister sitting in one of the two chairs in my L&D room making me laugh to distract me, overstaying the 10 minutes at a time rule I instituted because (aside from the hospital rules) my room was too small to hold everyone. I remember my brother and brother in law taking up the chairs, awkward. I remember the huge cart the young, cute (and apparently new) anesthesiology resident wheeled in, after moving furniture around and then out. I remember the pain of the needle or catheter or whatever it was hitting the nerve in my back. I remember the nurse, Bob, who held me in the right position, and how nice he was, how nice it was to just lean against someone.

I remember seeing my belly change shape with contractions that I couldn't really feel. I remember pain grabbing me so hard around my hips, I was clinging to the handrail, and the doctor -- or someone -- said you're 8 cm, it's time to push. It's time to push. And I cried, I don't know how, I can't do it. But I did it.

I remember my husband holding my hand with red rimmed, worried eyes, with tears. I remember the doctor trying to tear the remains of placenta from inside me. I was out of my mind, asking for tylenol, please something. In a haze, I remember them saying, don't you want morphine? Give her 3 of morphine. And more pain -- so much pain. I screamed. I actually screamed and the doctor said Make it 5.

I remember getting a sponge bath and sheets changed under me at 4am, or 6 am or some ungodly hour. I remember falling in and out of sleep, smiling, thinking "Oh, I had my babies!" Then, "Oh, but they're gone."

One of these days I'll connect the pieces and write something coherent. There's so much more, but I can't really see the screen anymore.