"I'm Sorry"

Six years ago today, Mike and I were driving to the hospital. Something was wrong. We didn't know what. We'd had an easy pregnancy. We'd gotten pregnant on our first "try". It's like, we thought about having a baby, and we were going to have a baby. That easy. We were like a golden family. Lucky. Easy. Simple. But that day, she wasn't kicking like she always did. She was a gymnast, but that day, our daughter was so quiet.

There is this one stretch of road on the way to the hospital. Only a few feet, but every time I'm there, I'm there six years ago. That is the few feet of road where I knew something was wrong. Mike reached over and held my hand, and we drove the rest of the way to the hospital knowing.

How many nurses said, "I'm sorry" that day? How many times have we heard it since?  What else is there to say? I almost feel like I need to apologize to people when I tell them. Because they don't know what to say, they feel trapped. But we're trapped too. I've thought over the past few weeks, that it's been six years. I should be better at this. I shouldn't be on the floor, curled in a ball, falling, falling.. After six years, shouldn't I be able to stand up? How do you do this? When does it become just another day? When will I not have to take time off of work, because this is the day my daughter died. Try writing that on a time off request form. I do, every year.

Sophia and I were out today, and I ended up on that road. I don't know how or why. Suddenly, I was on that highway, heading nowhere I wanted to be. It's almost as though I was forced to drive those few feet again. After I shook it off, we turned around and drove home. We were going to go to the cemetery, because the snowstorm tonight will prevent us from going tomorrow. But we're at home instead. I can't drive to Bountiful, drive up those winding, steep hills, and stand in front of that headstone today. I feel unprepared and selfish. I'm exhausted from the short conversation I had with Sophia about going.

"We're going to the cemetery today because it's going to snow tomorrow." "What's a cemetery?" "It's where she's buried, baby." "Oh! I know! That's how she died. Someone buried her." "No, baby. No."
She wants to know why her sister died, and we will never be able to tell her. So she comes up with her own ideas, and they hurt. They hurt. And now I can't face the thought of going up there. Not now. Later. I'll go later, and trudge through the snow, and place some trinkets on her grave, and stand there feeling useless, like i do every time.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.