I checked out her precious hands, knees, and feet for the longest time and then when I went to put the delivery blanket over her, my hand was on top of hers (with a blanket in between) and my heart could not move it away. The floodgates of my heart burst open and I cried so hard to have to say goodbye to her precious hand that I will never get to hold again; to those little feet that will never kick me again; to that precious body that reminded me of the power of a lightening storm. It was goodbye to our precious daughter that I've loved before conception- that I prayed for constantly- that I pleaded with God for, that I so feared losing even after she was gone.
With one call of the nurse, a final wrap of the blanket, your dad and I prayed and thanked God for you and the gift you are to us. The nurse came in and I nodded my head that we were ready- even though we would never be- and we stood as if to honor you, Emily, as the nurse wheeled you out of the room and closed the door.
It was the first time I felt like I was completely shattered and was going to crumble to the floor. You deserved a trumpet fanfare, or salutes, bouquets of flowers, and a huge angelic exit... I am proud of what a strong fighter you were: only 1 in 1,000 odds that you would have anencephaly, only 1 in 10,000 odds you would survive to the 16th week of pregnancy. But you made it past the predicted 32 week marker and went to full-term. You kept hanging on; you kept kicking. I will miss you everyday for the rest of my life.
Goodbye, Emily Jean.