alone in a room of 1,000

Before my daughter was born, we suffered the loss of a child. That event kicked off a truly horrible week of crap. The kind of week that, when someone tells you about it, makes you wonder whether or not "those sorts of things" always happen to "that person."

* * *

On Christmas Eve 2007, we discovered we were expecting our first child. That same day, my husband accidentally severely cut himself cooking dinner. We laughed at the carelessness of the mistake, and noted that it would make it on our list of bad things that had happened. I remember he turned grey. We had an ER trip on Christmas Eve. Whatever.

We heard the heartbeat at 10 weeks; the doctor found it right away with a tiny microphone pressed against my belly. It sounded strong, like a racehorse.We made small plans and talked about the good times to come. Boy or a girl? Redhead? I really had no idea.

At 14 weeks, I went in for my monthly doctor’s visit, the first one I had been to by myself. My husband was home, horribly sick with the flu. He was in-between bouts of fever and shivering, and sort of felt like he was going crazy or dying. So he stayed home. I read a People magazine while I waited for the doctor. Nicole Kidman was finally going to have a child after years of trying and some previous tragedies. Good for her.

The doctor came in, we talked. I asked questions about food I could eat, and she said as long as I didn't eat only Cheetos and smoke crack, I would be fine. A little blue cheese was nothing to worry about. I felt like I was gaining weight in not cute ways. She checked for the heartbeat but couldn’t find it. “Don’t freak out,” she said, smiling. “I’m not,” I said. “We’ll do an ultrasound,” she said. “Sounds good,” I said. I'm not actually prone to freaking out. Especially when things don't look good. It's a strange calm that I'm grateful for.

In the ultrasound room, the technician put the warm wand on my stomach. The picture of the baby appeared. It looked just like I thought it would, but I knew it was over before she even told me. I saw a band of solid lines where I would have expected to see the blips of life. And it just didn't move.

“I’m so sorry; we didn’t expect to see this today.”

I had just told everyone because I thought it was safe. The baby was gone but had not gone away. I felt hot. I cursed out loud and asked if I could call my husband. I knew I would have to do what hadn't been taken care of for me. And because my partner in crime was totally bedridden, I would have to do it alone. The doctor came in. I asked if I could have a drink that night. She said I could have two. And that I could smoke crack. That last part was a joke, I'm pretty sure.

I got home and poured myself a big vodka and something and went into the bedroom where my love lay all bundled up to prevent the chills, still sweating. It was all so sad. I didn't care at that point if I got sick. I almost wished I would. He was missing his class that night, a course that was co-taught by a professor out-of-state and another professor who I knew quite well. He had written one of my recommendations for graduate school, served as my honor's thesis adviser, and had been very supportive of my scholarly pursuits. He was a good guy and the closest thing I had to a mentor. And he was funny. So because he couldn't go to class, my husband had called in and was listening via phone, not really participating. I sat there with him, hearing students talk and the professor I know guide the conversation with insight and humor. I didn't finish my drink. I made a few phone calls and talked to some friends. There was even some much needed laughter, which I was so happy for. But I spent the night on the couch not sleeping, my mind racing.

* * *

At the hospital the next morning, a sweet woman in the elevator told me how much she liked my shoes. “Thanks,” I creaked and entered into idle conversation. The intake nurse, eying my feet said, “Those shoes are too cool.” Apparently, as you're being squeezed through a black hole, you are forced to be normal. My shoes were hand-painted with a picture of Botticelli's "Primavera" on the top of each. They are pretty cool.

The intake nurse left after asking me some questions, making sure I knew the name of the procedure I was going to have. I accidentally switched around the letters and called it a "CD." I sat there, sobbing. Really at the total sadness of the loss, for the thought of what would never be. That something had ended and that somehow, my body had been a part of it. I had lost something I had never known, which was even sadder. We had never had a chance to fall in love with each other. I said "good-bye" aloud and waited for someone to come get me. And I stopped crying.

In the room where they do the procedure, one of the nurses noticed the tattoo on my right calf. “It’s Whinnie the Pooh! I love Whinnie the Pooh!” I felt sick. She was so sweet. And so normal. I imagined her going home and having dinner with her family. I wondered if she ate breakfast, mostly because I hadn't. Could she eat food before she helped people go through things like this? I wondered if she had always been that sweet or if she had grown to be as she learned to care for strangers.

I had decided I wanted to be awake for everything and as things commenced, I literally began to see stars. My head and chest started to implode. “I feel hot,” I said, and soon a cool washcloth was on my forehead. My heart was pounding in my throat and I suddenly had a very terrible headache. I was made of fire, and the stars exploded into tiny planets. I breathed deeply and steadily. I am convinced that one can conquer anything with breath. I started to cool down, though the headache remained. And it was over. The nurse handed me my clothes.

“What cool shoes!” she said. Seriously, I'm not making this up.

I went home and sat on the corner of the couch. My husband was still home sick. We sat at opposite ends in our own zones of sickness and sadness.

* * *

I stayed home the next day, too. A Wednesday. I just wanted one more day to compose myself before facing people telling me how sorry they were. I knew I would be annoyed by these comments, and I hated myself in advance for that. That day, I received a phone call from my mom. She told me the professor who had been my mentor, the same professor who had been teaching my husband's class and whose voice I had heard on my worst day, had passed away the night before. Very, very suddenly. The memorial would be on Friday. We decided we would go together, my mother and I. I hung up the phone and began to cry again. It all felt so tremendous.

***

On Friday, we went to the temple. It was a really cold day, especially for March. I recognized people there, none of whom knew what had happened to me on Monday. We sat there with another former teacher of mine and listened to people tell stories. They were things I hadn't known about him: how he took care of immigrants from Russia. How much he loved trains. How he and his wife loved to dance. And there were some things I knew already: how he loved to teach. What a mess he was. How he made big things happen out of nothing. There was a lot of love there. Both of his children, older than me and with families of their own, shared memories of their dad. It felt strange to listen to it. I felt as though I were invisible, eavesdropping in on a part of someone's life that was supposed to be private. Sitting there with my own private story. Their loss was so big, because his death had sealed up the possibility of future memories. And they already had some idea of how wonderful that future might have been.

***

The week after all of this, I had to travel out of town for a conference. Of course I did. The keynote speaker was a very vibrant, well-known conductor, and his shtick was to tell us how music tells stories that transcend language. He played a piece by Chopin that, he said, was about loss. And he asked the room of over 1,000 people to take a moment and be silent, and to remember someone close who had been lost. Everyone obliged, and the room fell into a hush.

I felt like I was made of sand, falling into the shape of something else. I had so much I was missing but still felt as though none of belonged to me. What memories was I entitled to, the ones that hadn't been or the ones that weren't mine to have? I danced along a precipice. And finally, I chose something to remember.