A broken Hallelujah
I invite you to take a spoonful of my sorrow. If you are not ready to do that, this is not the blog post you want to read. It’s hard and it’s getting harder. Sometimes my cup of sorrow seems manageable. Daylight brings obligations of motherhood, little people to feed and feed and feed. But, when I lay down to sleep, there are nights it overflows, silently soaking my pillow while I cup two hands around my pregnant belly and hold my broken daughter, alive and kicking. As my due date approaches, there are things to be done. Things I never want to do. I looked up how to pronounce “palliative.” I have a map of burial plots available in “Baby Land” at Belcrest Cemetery. I ordered books about rabbits that listen and a boy who had to say goodbye to his dead baby sister. I have to pick a day to meet our daughter and watch her die. On January 4, we were at OHSU all day getting an extensive ultrasound, meeting with our new doctor and getting a fetal MRI. When we sat down with our doctor, I could