When I first arrived at the hospital I was terrified of the uncertain future we faced. I had no idea how long we would be staying and I was preparing to be trapped there for months if it meant saving our baby. I remember spending the drive to Denver brainstorming up ways I could keep my job by working remotely from a hospital bed, and trying to come up with childcare plans for Logan. At some point in our drive, I was disappointed when I realized I had forgotten to bring my Rosetta Stone discs for Spanish because I was certain I’d become fluent before we went home. I never imagined we would be leaving so soon. When I entered that hospital I was scared and uncertain. I was cautiously optimistic, but I really was hopeful. One week later I was rolled out the doors a completely different person with a fresh incision and my baby in a cooler.

Going home was a strange mix of emotions. The morning of my discharge I was a little scared to leave and start dealing with the realities of life outside the hospital. I was afraid of everything that would come next and I didn’t know if I was strong enough to survive, but at the same time, I couldn’t wait to get out of that place. I didn’t want to be consumed by thoughts of Ava anymore and I was sure getting out of the hospital room where the whiteboard still said, “26+4, goals: stay pregnant,” was what I needed. I was sure getting home to my own bed was going to bring me relief. I was ready to leave. The doctors made their final rounds, I had my blood drawn one more time, I took a shower, and the nurses removed the staples from my incision. (And yes, Travis filmed that too.) The only clothes I had with me were of the maternity variety but I was still about the same size as I was a week earlier so it didn’t bother me much as I slowly got dressed. We were packed, ready to leave, and ready to figure out how to keep living.

When we left the hospital, I called my dad to let him know we were on our way to the friend’s house where he was staying with my mom and Logan. I told him the preliminary news about Ava’s autopsy and I almost felt joy as I told him there was nothing anyone could have done to save her. It feels weird to describe that news as being “good,” and even harder to explain, but for three days I sat in a hospital bed staring blankly at a wall trying to figure out if there was anything we should have done differently. This, I have learned is the bargaining stage. If only I had done something differently, she would be alive. Those preliminary results were like an exoneration for me. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know that the guilt would return or that I would find myself stuck in the bargaining stage again and again for the next year, I only knew that for now, a burden had been lifted from my shoulders. It was a strange form of joy I will never be able to fully explain.

We met my parents at their friends’ house and we all sat outside to eat lunch together. The sun was hot on my face and with each breath I felt the stale hospital air leave my lungs. It was still really difficult for me to take a deep breath but I could feel myself coming alive again. I moved slowly and cautiously, but my heart was leaping. Until I breathed too deeply and choked on a bite of my sandwich. I instantly started coughing and the pain hit me. As I was gasping for breath, unable to control my body’s reflexes to cough I grabbed my stomach and tried to keep my belly from bouncing beneath my raw incision. When the coughing fit finally ended I immediately pulled back my pants to check out the damage. Based on the amount of pain I was feeling I was sure I had ripped open and my uterus was hanging out of my incision. It wasn’t. The pain was excruciating but I was still in one piece. I leaned back in my chair, feeling the sunshine on my face and the fresh air in my lungs once again. I’m going to be ok, I thought. It’s going to hurt like hell, but I’m not going to break. I wanted to stay in that moment forever but the reality was setting in that we had to get Ava’s body to the funeral home before they closed and we were still three hours from home. Travis put Logan in the car and we started driving home, my parents close behind.

The car ride home was full of phone call updates to family, and coordinating the arrival of our first meal delivery by my amazing friend who had organized a meal train, and planning other odds and ends. I don’t remember crying much. I remember feeling like life would move on and I was going to just get over this. When we arrived at the funeral home we all got out of the car and I had Travis take a picture of the cooler before we brought Ava inside. I don’t know why I wanted a picture, but I’m imagining, much like the point of this blog, I didn’t want to forget any memory of Ava even if it was sad and disturbing. We met the funeral director, who immediately offered his sympathies and then just handed him the box containing our daughter’s body. We would return the next day to go over details but for the time being, he would take her body and we would go home to get some rest. It was weird. There is no other way to describe it than utterly bizarre. It wasn’t an emotional experience. I’m sure we shed a few tears but there was no memorable crying or really much emotion at all. It was almost like handing our car keys to the valet as we gave him a look that said, we’re trusting you because you’re a professional but please take care of our baby, and we just casually left. I think I even sent a text to my sister along the lines of, just left Ava with her babysitter. It all felt very strange and almost devoid of the climax of emotion I had expected. And really that’s so much of what I have found grief to be, unexpected and unpredictable. The times when people expect me to cry I am a stone, and the next minute the wind blows the wrong direction and I am cracking into a million pieces. I can’t explain it. The big moments, the notable ones that I dread, that should have this massive amount of sorrow or meaning attached to them have overall seemed to be the easiest. The buildup has usually been the worst part while the actual moments are not only bearable, they’re overall unremarkable. It is the moments I don’t expect it when the grief hits the hardest. Like sitting quietly at home.

As soon as we arrived home I sat on the couch and slowly looked around, taking it all in as if I were coming home for the first time. Everything was exactly as we had left it. We hadn’t set up anything for the new baby yet and I was relieved I wouldn’t have to disassemble any nursery furniture, but I didn’t realize how much baby stuff was just sitting around my house. I never put away any of Logan’s baby toys because there wasn’t a point, a new baby was going to be arriving in a few short months, and now I couldn’t turn my head without seeing something that was supposed to be for Ava. There were rattles and teething toys on the floor mixed in with Logan’s toys, there were burp cloths mixed into Logan’s basket of bibs, and a breast pump was tucked into a corner under the kitchen counter. It was all too much. I thought coming home would get my mind off of Ava. I thought coming home would bring me relief but this didn’t feel good at all. I walked upstairs and saw Logan’s room. Clothes and diapers and toys were strewn about. I saw myself in that same spot a week ago as we packed for the hospital. I laughed when Travis asked if we needed to pack things for the baby. No, I assured him. We would definitely be back to get things before the baby was ready to come home from the NICU, and besides, it was going to be a preemie, nothing we had would fit. I walked into our bedroom and I was met with the disarray of clothes strewn about and a pile of ball pit balls on the floor. Months ago I had turned Logan’s pack and play into a ball pit. A week ago I had hurriedly dumped the balls onto the floor as I frantically readied his pack and play to bring for our stay at the hospital. It was like coming home after a tornado had struck. Everything was just as we had left it, yet nothing was the same. I couldn’t turn my head without another reminder of the fact that we were home and our baby was never going to join us.

I opened my t-shirt drawer to change my clothes and all I saw were maternity shirts. I had my mom, the ultimate organizer, help me as I started carefully sorting through my clothes just wanting to get them out of my sight. I felt a quiet sadness as I set aside the shirts that my belly would never be big enough to fill, and I was handling it pretty well until I opened up my top dresser drawer and there were my nursing bras staring me in the face. I never packed them up after I weaned Logan, and as any new mom can tell you, bra shopping was not my priority. I had left them there, ready to feed my next baby. Out of nowhere, at the sight of the bras, my rage boiled over. I grabbed one in my fist and threw it onto my bed followed by another and another until I just stood there, leaning over my underwear drawer sobbing. It surprised me and I think it surprised my mom too. I had been pretty quiet until that moment. But surprised or not, she stood there with me, and I let her quietly hold me in her arms while she let me sob. And a few minutes later it was over. I blew my nose, took a deep breath, and calmly continued sorting my clothes.

Now that we were home the reality of it all came crashing in. I wasn’t pregnant anymore. Our baby wasn’t coming home. Ava was dead. Our house was crawling with baby things to remind me of the memories we would never make. This wasn’t going to get better now that we were home. This wasn’t ever going to get better. I would never be the same as the person that left this house a week ago. The person that checked into the hospital doesn’t exist anymore.

And I stood there for a minute thinking, I can’t even clean out my underwear drawer, how the fuck am I going to make it through her funeral?