After I discovered I was pregnant, five other women I know found out the same thing. One was only three weeks behind me. Another was five months behind me. The rest were in between. All of them with girls. All five of them. About a month ago, the first girl was born. And I cried. Pretty much all day long. Today, the second one arrived. I didn't find out until after 10 pm, so at least I now have the solace of sleep to look forward to. I have to make it through three more, and I don't know if I can do it. Three more little girls born healthy and loved. Three more little girls in their mother's arms. Pictures of happy families. Exhausted mothers. Beaming fathers. Pictures I never got to take. Pictures of a life I didn't get to have.
Don't get me wrong, I am so very happy for all of these wonderful women and their daughters. All five are friends of mine and I would never wish any of them ill will. (I would actually never wish my situation on someone I despised.) I am happy for them, but that doesn't mean I hurt any less.
My heart is already broken. Each time one of The Five is born, it breaks my heart a little more. It's not fair. No baby should die. No mother should feel this pain. Why me? Why my daughter? I know there is no answer to those questions. I know there is no reason to this tragedy. And I hate it.
I hate that not only do I not get to hold my daughter in my arms, but I have to watch everyone else hold theirs. Women who's pregnancies followed mine - and went along with mine. Women whom I care about and want the best for, and who got it. I have to watch each little girl come into this world when mine never got that chance. I have to watch these little girls do all the things my daughter will never get to do.
Three more little girls to go. Three more healthy babies. Three more joyous mothers. One broken heart.