Turning A Page

This morning as I was getting ready to take Dahlia and I for a playdate with friends...
To get us out of the house so that I wouldn't have to tackle - quite yet - my overwhelming to-do list...
This morning as I was transferring my belongings from my backpack to my smaller purse...
Because I no longer need to carry my backpack with so many things everywhere I've been going around my visits to the hospital...
This morning after waking up at 6:30 a.m. worried that I had ruined my "I'm with Tikva" t-shirt by accidentally putting it into the dryer...
And going downstairs right then to make sure it was okay and bringing it back upstairs to hang it up neatly in my closet before I could try to get back to sleep...
This morning I kept stumbling on things that belonged in Tikva's box...
The purple pen, now empty of ink, that I used to write daily in my journal, noting every detail of all that happened to Tikva each day...
The ins and outs of her ups and downs, the drugs she was on, the changes in the machine settings, the precious moments she got to do regular baby things like fall asleep in our arms or get nourished by my breastmilk...
The positive pregnancy test I saved from October 5, 2007 and brought home from Jerusalem...
Which I remembered also at 6:30 this morning and searched for and found before leaving the house today...
A little blue plastic tool to clean under our nails that came with the sponges we used to scrub our hands and arms upon arrival at the hospital...
Which I had saved in my car all this time and finally took out to put away.

All of which led me to Tikva's box of belongings from her short life, which is actually pretty full...
And then to the bag that sits on top of the box, which holds the things that still carry her smell...
Her Lambie, her soft blankie, her Duckie, her hat from that last night, and the little kipa she wore during her last week of life.

I've been taking a deep breath into each of her belongings almost every day since she departed.
When I smell her it is like she is right there.
I can almost feel her soft warm skin under my hands.
I can almost hear her breathing in all the complicated ways she breathed.
I can almost see her, asleep, awake, sedated, conscious.

I smelled her Lambie and her blankie this morning and the same tears that have hung out just beneath the surface all day since were immediately unleashed...
For about a minute I just cried, deeply.

I spent most of the day talking with Amy while Dahlia played with her daughter Simone.
We didn't talk very much about Tikva until the end of the day, but every once in a while I would think about her and I had to breathe deep in order to keep the tears from coming up again.
Not because I had to - I certainly could've started bawling in front of Amy - and a few times talking about Tikva, about this journey, they came out just a little.

Now I sit in the sunroom...
Where I spent so much of my time during my pregnancy, holding Tikva safely inside me.
Now I listen to the flute music that sounds like what her spirit has always felt like to me...
Light and sweet and slightly melancholy.
Crying the tears I didn't cry all day.
Missing my Baby Girl.

Last night Dave said, "I can't believe she isn't here anymore."

I can't believe she isn't here anymore.

Deep breath today when I woke up and came out of the haze of the early morning and remembered where I was.
Remembered what day it is... the day after it all.
The day after Tikva's celebration yesterday.
The day after our week away in the mountains.
The day after our week of sitting shiva.
The day after Tikva's funeral.
The day after she breathed her last breaths and returned into God's arms.
The day after two months of daily life in the ICN.
The day after four months of weekly appointments at UCSF.
The day after moving into our house in San Francisco.
The day after our month living with Dave's aunt and uncle in Marin.
The day after returning to the Bay Area from Israel.
The day after getting up in front of Dave's classmates and professors and rabbis and telling them we were leaving to get help for our Baby Girl.
The day after that first ultrasound when Dr. Kreisberg said, "There's a problem."
Today is that day... the day after it all.

I am still writing the same story, but today a page has been turned.
The next chapter?
I'm not sure...
Maybe it's more that blank page in between two chapters in a book.

All I can do to keep myself moving forward...
In spite of not knowing exactly where the story is going now that Tikva is gone...
Is to keep writing.