I don't even know really where to begin, but writing has always been my outlet, and I am having a moment of clarity where my fingers seem to be able to type w/o stumbling. I just feel the need to talk...say what I am feeling...honor my baby girl.

We went to a dinner Saturday night w/ our baby girl. She was the belle of the ball. Everyone talked to her and fussed over her and she just sat there so happy and content. I held her for most of the night and toward the end, Daddy held her.

We went to a friend's house for the night. She and I scrapbooked and drank Dr. Pepper, while her dh and mine talked politics in the living room. Our little one went to sleep on our bed. She awoke around 1 w/ a high fever. I gave her Tylenol and nursed her back to sleep. Around 5am, I was awakened again by her cries...she was feverish again and breathing rapidly. I gave her more Tylenol, changed her diaper, and nursed her on the couch. My oldest son came out to go to the bathroom and stopped by the couch. I told him baby was really sick and to pray for her. He said that must have been why God got him up. I laid her back down on a palate on the floor at about 6am.

When we awoke at 8am, I looked down at her...something wasn't right. Her eyes looked funny and her breathing seemed very labored. I grabbed her up and laid her on the bed. I called for my husband to come look at her. I wanted to take her to the hospital her surgeries had been at, but that was nearly 2 hrs away...neither one of us felt she could make it that far. We raced to the hospital, leaving the other children in my friend's care.

At the hospital, I felt desperation...I knew she was not going to be ok, but I kept hoping against all odds that somehow she would pull through. Her poor body was mottled, her eyes were not tracking, her O2 was 76, her blood pressure was nearly non-existant. I had watched my father die 1 year and 1 week earlier...I knew. They moved her to another room and put her in a warmer, they stuck a tube down her throat, they stuck a tube down her nose. She was in septic shock. They started chest compressions, and while my dh kept begging them to continue, I just wanted them to quit and let me hold her. We fell on the floor and prayed and prayed and cried out. I finally asked them to give her to me...I begged them to let me hold her. The chaplain was so good to make them completely unplug her so I could sit in a chair and rock my baby. I held her tight, kissed her feet, her cheeks, stroked her hair. I asked the Lord to give her back, but I knew that was not fair of me to ask.

You see, she's never been mine. My husband and I never talked about it, but always lingering in the back of our minds...long b/f she was sick...were the thoughts of her not staying w/ us.  I shoved them out of my head, but there were still little things...her stocking has an angel on it, she seemed so unbelievably perfect...never fussed. My husband said he felt from the beginning that she would not be w/ us long...but that is never something you talk about. I think I told one person just recently that I felt as though the Lord wanted her home and we just kept prolonging the inevitable.

The Lord brought her back to where all of this started...my friend's house. You see, that is where she got sick the first time...I do not know why He chose there, but I do know He ordained that moment from the beginning of her life. Maybe b/c I needed my friend to be there, maybe because I needed to know there was absolutely nothing I could do. I do not know if I will ever be able to go back there...and that pains me...she and I have had many good memories there...but even walking into her house Saturday gave me de ja vu of when our baby girl first got sick...little did I know what would transpire there would be more than de ja vu. My baby died in a hospital called Mercy.

An amazing thing is that God put a family in our path several months ago who lost a child 3 years ago at the age of 6 1/2, as well as 2 babies (ages 5 days and 13 days). A few weeks ago, she asked me to write an article for her new website (she is in the midst of having a book published entitled "In Faithfullness, He Aflicted Me"--the website is meant to help grieving parents) on all we had gone through w/ our daughter...never did I imagine we would be sharing the same perspective. We had spent Friday night fellowshipping at their house. They were the first people we called...they drove 2 hrs to get to us.

They have been walking w/ us through all of this. The husband will be presiding over the funeral...I feel as though he is the only person who can do it.

We are slowly planning her funeral...I hate this. I do not know how I am going to let them close that lid. She will be wearing an outfit her Aunt bought her. I cannot imagine any other child wearing it. She will be buried w/ the puppy dog that stayed by her bedside all through the surgeries. We will have a slide show of her life. And we will be releasing balloons w/ her name on them.

I also have a physical hurt that is a painful reminder that I have full br**sts and empty arms. I hurt so bad, I cannot even hold my other children w/o wincing in pain.

I have such strange and stupid thoughts...too many to put them all here. I want to remember every second of her final moments, yet I cannot bear that picture. I want the funeral to be perfect...no regrets. I ache to hold her...to change one more diaper...to nurse her one more time. I think I can hear her...I tell myself to be quiet and not turn on the light when I go in my bedroom b/c baby is sleeping. But she's not.

I wanted to keep her, but she was not mine. She was never mine. She has always been the Lord's, just as they all are. I don't own any of them...they are all on loan. But that does not stop the hurt. And even knowing what I know now, I would do it all over again...I would hold her and love her for those same 7 months over and over and over again.