The girls are two months old today, in gestational terms, anyway.
As time passes, I am filled with joy and sadness in equal measure, for the person my living daughter is becoming and for the person Eva would have been. The more I grow to love my survivor, the deeper my pain for Eva burrows into me. The ones who are here make clear what we're missing.
But what I truly dread for our future is our daughter's realization of what she has lost. Some day, we'll start the conversation with her about her identical twin. I try to imagine what it would be like to know that someone with exactly my DNA and exactly my start in life will never be known to me again. It's inconceivable. I just hope her loss doesn't define her and our hope our loss doesn't define us.
This started as an online journal in early 2006. At the time, it was a carefree spot for silly diatribes and the occasional photo. Since then, I got pregnant with mono.amniotic mono.chorionic twins, learned one of our daughters had a heart defect, spent 11 weeks in a hospital room and 29 more days with Eva in the NICU and PICU before losing her. We have two children who are alive and thriving and one who didn't make it. For me, this has become that place in between.
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