Her name would have been Camilla.
She would have been my first grandchild, but she died two weeks ago, two months before she was due.
She lived and grew and kicked inside my daughters body for six months. Then, for some reason only God and maybe the doctors know, she died. Doctors had to remove her from my daughters womb. My child had a few minutes to hold her child’s dead body. Then it was done.
We’re still trying to adjust. Camilla was a wanted, anticipated, loved child. I hope that wherever her spirit is, she knows that. I was so looking forward to showing her off to my friends. And spoiling her totally rotten, as is a grandmother’s privilege.
I keep thinking I’m over it. Then suddenly I find myself staring into space, missing the little girl who was supposed to arrive in August, and now never will. The smiles I will never see, the laughs I don’t get to hear. My daughter remains devastated. She has some health issues that may have affected the child, and she is now inconsolable, blaming herself. (I’m perfectly happy to blame her live in boyfriend, I blogged about that at Romancing The Genres.) But in the end, blame doesn’t matter.