How to begin?

I found a draft from the post I made for this blog, one I never published from five years ago.  I explain what happened in the next post.

A week ago today, our four month old baby girl, Alamanda, died. I left her on the bed, seemingly far enough from the edge that there shouldn't have been a problem, and buffered from the edge by a firm pillow, then I went to work. She somehow found a way to get off the bed face first into a pillow and smothered. My husband was home and found her. He called 911 and performed CPR, but it was too late. My husband, my children, and myself are all devastated but trying to find a way to pick up the shreds of our lives and move forward.

It's hard to describe the emotional roller coaster we've been through over the last week. Everything from exquisite agony to the peace of knowing without a doubt that we will one day hold our little girl again. This blog will reflect not just my experiences but those of my husband in this impossibly difficult situation. So many others have been through this kind of pain, the loss of a child, before, but everyone's experience is different, and this is our pain. This journey is uniquely ours, but will hopefully help someone else along the way.

We are LDS, of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. We believe in forever families. But that doesn't always make things easy.

Today, at the week's anniversary, I marked the hours. I checked my clock and marked the hour when a week ago I was feeding her as I held her close, safe and warm in my arms. I marked again when, a week ago, I went to work, something I don't do often and won't do again for a while. I marked again when, a week ago, my husband walked in to check on her, and she was fine. Then again when he walked in and found his world had shattered around him. Then again when I called after work, and my life shattered around me as I rushed to the hospital.

The scenes are all a blur in my mind, doctors coming in to tell me they were doing everything to revive her, the doctor who came in to tell me there was nothing they could do. Then a flurry of counselors, police detectives and CPS workers whose job it is, as a matter of course, to investigate a child's death. It still feels like a nightmare in my mind. People embraced me; members of my church came to support me; my husband came to hold me up. But everything people said to me felt useless next to the aching knowlege that my baby was gone. My husband and I got to hold her lifeless body tight one last time, to kiss her face. But the pain was greater than any we have ever known.

I wrote a poem after that day:

Pain
Blinding, numbing
Burning like a volcano
And clouding out everything
From my vision.
Everything tastes like dirt or salt.
I choke it down to fill the emptiness
But the real emptiness remains.
Everything I see, touch, think about
Links back to chubby toes,
Chunky little legs
Soft little cheeks,
Bright blue eyes
Staring at me from around the breast,
Peach fuzz across the soft head,
Round little bum
Aimed at me for a change
Preparatory to eating.
Where are you, my angel?
I long for you.
My every thought is for you,
Wondering how yesterday could have gone
If I’d have been just a little more careful
With your fragility.
My only comforts,
Your older brother and sister,
Your daddy
And above all knowing one day
You will fill my arms again.

There is more, so much more. The last week has felt more like five years, and my baby sometimes like a fond dream rather than a sweet reality. But for now, this is all I can write.

Tami