A year ago (give or take a day), despite being in a hotel room (with Austin) at a scientific meeting, Sierra was conceived. Six months ago, she was born, having died a few days earlier. January 3rd to July 3rd - her entire life, only six months, all of it in my womb. July 3rd to January 3rd - my life without her, so far. Six months. She has now been gone for as long as she was here. A year and a day or two ago, she didn't exist. Her entire life was contained in 2009 - the first half spent growing her, and the second half spent mourning her loss. Not the way it was supposed to be at all. She never saw the world outside of my belly, but she was here and she was real and I miss her.
I find that I keep repeating that - she was here and she was real. I say it to others, almost defiantly, but I'm trying to convince myself, too. She was here for such an incredibly short time.
As I lit her candle at the dinner table on Thanksgiving, I said I was doing it because it was our first Thanksgiving without her. But as those words came out, I was thinking, but we never had a Thanksgiving with her.
Six complete months. Twenty seven weeks and five days. I always add the five days, or round up to twenty eight weeks, to make sure to count every day that she was with me. Such a short time. And if she feels like just a dream to me, how can I possibly expect her to be real to other people? But she was here and she was real and I miss her. And I love her. And I always will.