I was thinking, earlier this evening, that I was going to write a blog entry about all the things I have on the needles, and how I'm trying to figure out how I'll possibly get it all done even remotely on time... and then I logged onto Facebook.
I found a message there from an old college friend that was, quite simply put, tragic. On the Sunday before Christmas, for reasons unknown to me, his expectant wife ended up delivering their firstborn child at just short of 22 weeks of gestation. Severely premature, her little lungs were so underdeveloped that the NICU had little to with which to work. She lived for only 40 minutes. I'm still reeling.
I look at my 2-year-old daughter, and think of the child I've carried within me for 34 weeks, now, and can't bear to imagine being bereft of either of them. One of the strange phenomena of such a situation is that there are so many factors that make something like this "worse", but none that really make it any better. I came to the conclusion a long time ago that the loss of one's child is always excruciatingly painful, whether it is the day you find out you're pregnant, or whether your child is rising on 100 years old, and there is no point in discussing what is "better" or "worse".
My deepest sympathies go out to my friend and his wife. I've thought about trying to knit the something as a bit of a memorial, but I'm really not sure if such a thing would provide comfort, or just more pain. I so dearly wish there were something I could do for them, but I've come up empty. Therefore, I'll simply dedicate this post to the memory of Hope Mary Horstman, born and passed on 20 December 2009. To her grieving parents, Greg and Jen, I can only say that angels now cuddle your baby girl, and will hold her for you, until that day when you all meet again, in God's presence.