Thanks to the miracles of modern science, I was reassured that I would not have to worry about that one particular (and already statistically unlikely) fetal abnormality, though they were unable to explain the slightly skewed ratio. Mystery solved years later: the girl with the out sized prenatal skull and the stunted shinbone turned out to be really smart and really short.
In each of my pregnancies, I looked forward to those ultrasound images, craving whatever reassurance I could get that my baby would be perfect. Odd, to hang so much hope on grainy and fuzzy photographs of floating translucent blobs that looked more like prehistoric sea creatures than humans, but Xanax wasn't an option.
No amount of information could be too much, but the truth is, I knew nothing. Nothing of the explosion of love I would feel, nothing of the way my heart could expand each time to accommodate a new explosion of equal magnitude, nothing of the unremitting worry that comes with being a parent. Nothing of how short lived that initial sigh of relief would be, the brief exhale that comes after counting up a total of twenty fingers and toes.
I get caught up in the end of year hand wringing about how bad 2016 was. The deaths of so many talented people who have done more than their share to enrich our world. I had lunch with my good friend yesterday, exactly eleven months after the inexplicable and sudden death of her son, a perfect child with ten fingers and ten toes, a young man who had survived the trials and tribulations of adolescence with flying colors and who had entered adulthood with as much promise as any parent could hope for. The kind of promise that ultrasound pictures can never guarantee, but the kind of promise that comes as close as anything can to allowing us to finally exhale. Close, but not quite.
We confessed to each other our embarrassment at the resentment that bubbles up when everyone talks so much about the famous ones, when our hearts (and I cannot even begin to compare mine with hers) have been so irrevocably broken. Let's just say I was hardly surprised to learn that Debbie Reynolds' heart stopped beating a day after she lost her daughter.
My friend and I tried to sort through it all, yesterday, as we made our way through a pack of tissues, why everything still seems so raw all these months later. Adam died early in 2016, days after his 27th birthday, and we, like a lot of folks, cannot imagine that 2017 will be any worse. But unlike other folks, my friend won't be able to turn the page and close the book when the ball falls on New Year's Eve. The loss just gets more permanent, and continues to defy belief. The ache is different but unabated, more stabbing in a lot of ways.
I feel lucky. I feel lucky each day when my kids are healthy and thriving, but I never exhale. Good riddance to 2016, for many reasons, but, for me, the year was filled with good things as well, for which I feel very blessed. I know my friend will, one day, be in less pain, but one trip around the sun just isn't enough time for that kind of healing.
Gosh, I don't mean to be so morbid. Between tears, my friend and I shared at least a few laughs, and even some snarkiness, as we always manage to do. And we hope for better days for each other and for everyone who has loved and lost, and we look forward to reveling in each others blessings, moving forward.
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