On Thursday we met with my surgeon for the last time before the day of the surgery. I am terrible at asking questions. I always forget them during the visit and remember them after I have left the office. So, for the past couple of weeks I had made little notes on my phone with the "notes" app. My phone goes with me everywhere, so every time I would think of a question I would just whip my phone out and type it up and save it. I had about four questions. Yes, for the past few weeks that I had known of this appointment and this being one heck of a serious surgery I had thought of four whole questions. And they were all answered in a whopping five minutes. I thought they were pretty good, too. Thought they sounded pretty knowledgeable. Like:
As the year mark inches closer I find myself thinking about the night that I went to the hospital. I find myself thinking about the moment she was born. I find myself thinking about the moment the doctors told me there was no hope. I remember when my OB told me that she was coming and I just looked at my husband who was just looking back at me. I was totally frozen. I don't know if I was in shock or if it was from the pain medication that was flowing through my system. All I knew, was that it was too soon. I remember them telling me that she was measuring smaller than what they originally thought she was. They told us that we had a choice. A choice to hold our daughter while she left this world or they could transfer her an hour away to another hospital. But, they did not believe she would survive the ambulance ride. I was frozen. We sent her an hour away. My husband went along and I stayed admitted into the hospital. Somebody who is reading this right now is probably thinking, ...
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