The Absolute Worst Day Ever

You're awakened from your slumber by a baby crying. The twins are in the connecting room, so you go into the room and pick up the one who's crying. You carry her with you to warm the milk, patting her back as the drink increases to the correct temperature on the stove.

Milk warmed, you set her in her carrier and place a folded blanket across her little legs, to assist her in holding the bottle while you attend to her sibling.

But as soon as you pick the other twin up, you know something's wrong, for she feels heavier than she should. When you see her face, the floor drops from under you and your whole world collapses, as her skin has a slight blue tinge to it, instead of the pinkish-red it had when you put her down.

Stifling a sob and refusing to believe what's in front of you, you grab the phone and barely manage to dial the police - your hands are shaking so - who then dial an emergency operator for you. When you're connected, you somehow stumble through giving your name, address, and phone number.

The Operator says someone's on their way and they instruct you on how to do CPR, which you learned to do in school last semester, but have forgotten in your state of panic. Your heart beating faster than you thought possible, you follow the steps, but grow more and more upset as it doesn't appear to be working, for your baby - your BABY! - is still blue and not breathing.

By the time the ambulance arrives, you're in tears, barely able to continue the CPR until an EMT takes over. The EMT's partner gets contact information for your husband and mother-in-law, then tells you which hospital they're going to. In a fog, you cry that you have no ride, can't you please go in the ambulance. They consent.

On the way to the hospital, you're still mostly in denial and there's a part of you that's praying for a miracle. You feel sick. Your heart is thumping, thumping, thumping, and your head won't stop pounding. You're barely able to breathe.

Please, God, you keep praying, please let my baby be okay. Please. Please!

At the hospital, you can't contain yourself; you're pacing in the waiting room, crying and praying. Fortunately, your other baby is sleeping, unaware of what's happening with her partner. When your husband arrives, all you can do is shake your head and cry. His strong arms, which usually comfort you so well, do nothing to quiet the pain now screaming in your soul.

When the doctor finally comes out - an hour, two hours, a day later, you don't know, as time seems to be moving slow, yet fast - you know from the look on his face that your baby is gone. When the doctor utters the confirming words, you collapse in a fit of tears.

Your husband has to hold you up when you go to say goodbye to your little girl, your beautiful baby who didn't even get to live her life, leaving much too soon. From that point on, everything about that day, about that month, about that year, becomes a blur that you scarcely remember even now, nearly 24 years later.

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** In remembrance of LaTasha Trinece High, who left this world much much too soon, on May 29th, 1993. She was 5.5 months old. **