Which means, this time last year, my life was intact.
Justin and I took Benjamin the dragon trick-or-treating. We talked about how Lydie would be with us next year, wondered what she would dress up as. A neighbor gave me an extra piece of candy "for the baby."
Justin and I spent the weekend playing furniture Tetris, trying to figure out how to fit the glider and the changing table and the crib into such a small room. We started to hang up the decor, including the "Lydia, you are my sunshine" print.
I continued collecting the perfect blue and green combinations to fill up my baby girl's closet.
We were counting down the days until she joined our family, thinking that these days with only Benjamin were numbered.
Most of all, I remember that I was really happy.
I keep thinking about this time last year.
I'm trying to remember what it felt like to be that happy. That innocent.
To not be completely jaded.
To believe that good things happened to good people.
To believe that I had some semblance of control over my life. Control over my children. Control over my body.
To believe that stupid platitude that things happen for a reason.
To feel comforted by statistics.
To be able to have normal conversations with old friends.
To be able to really smile for photos, to not feel like such a faker.
In my hard moments, I can't imagine I'll ever be truly happy again.
I'm in love with my son and my youngest daughter (and my husband, of course).
But there's this longing, this unfulfillment, this emptiness that resides within me.
There's this constant missing.
The tears have been coming so easily recently.
I noticed the other day that I have wrinkles.
I think the last year has aged me a million years.
Maybe I shouldn't write in the roughest moments.
Maybe I should wait for the tough times to pass.
Maybe I should wait until I get more sleep, until I feel less anxious.
Maybe I should wait until I am feeling more at peace.
I just can't stop thinking about this time last year.
How do you celebrate the first birthday when your daughter died before she was born?
Do you decorate a cake? Do you sing?
Do you look at photographs of her, make the blurry images in your mind sharp once more?
Do you look up at the stars and tell her how much you love her, and beg that she can hear you?
How do you get through the one-year anniversary of the worst day of your life, the day you found out her heart had stopped beating?
I guess the answer to this question is:
The same way I have somehow gotten through the 360 days since then.
One moment at a time.
I just really miss my girl.
And I really miss the life I led until November 5, 2014.