I like that spot--as much as I can like any spot there. We've spent countless hours running through the cemetery, training for race after race. We live practically across the street. Several times while walking through with Eliot, we've seen children playing on the hill. That makes me smile---to know there will be kids there, playing, keeping Calla company.
I know she's not really there. But it will be a place where I, we, can go and remember.
We chose a marker, and on it we could put four words. Four words--aside from Calla Valentina Scott, aside from her birthday. How can I sum up everything she means to us in four measly words? I can't scratch the surface of how much I love her, miss her, want her here with us. I can't begin to explain the hopes and dreams I held in my heart. Four words? May as well be zero.
In the end we chose these: "Beloved daughter, sister, friend." Not nearly enough--a metaphor for the time she was inside me, with me, living.
On a different note, we go to my doctor tomorrow. I'm awaiting this visit with equal parts excitement and dread. We may leave there tomorrow with no more resolution than we have today. But at least I can touch base with someone who was there, to remind me that, no, this wasn't all a dream--rather, it wasn't just a nightmare. It was, indeed, real.
I'm scared. When Calla was born, there were no apparent cord issues, no placenta issues. I'm scared it was something more--something genetic, something really, really bad--something that will make the doctor look at me and tell me what I fear most: don't even think of trying again, girl.
Because right now, that hope of moving forward, of--of what?! Certainly not a replacement, or a quick fix. But of a possible number Three--this one with a different outcome--that's what's keeping me going. I need that hope--you don't know how much I need it. And I'm really, really afraid of getting it yanked away yet again.