I don't like waking up on this particular day. I almost want to just skip the day and not face it.
I don't like it because I know there's a version of me that's waking up to this particular morning in 2010 still innocent and full of hope and excitement that our first child is on their way.
That version of me doesn't know that this would be the last day. That in the hours that lead into the night, that Tia, our first, would die during those long hours of labour.
This day, the 30th, is the moment before.
Her tiny heart would stop and that version of me, of us, Julie and I, our entire lives will be derailed forever.
It's not a version of me, but actually me. When our planet was pretty much in the same place as it is today, just 14 small years ago.
Instead of wrapping presents for a teenage girl, Julie and I steal a single day to be on our own and think about that single day, on the 31st that we got to spend with Tia.
It's not fair. It's never fair when a child goes before its parents. It's not the order of things and no amount of good karma can balance it or make good things happen or change the past.
So instead Julie and I schedule our grief for this day, the 30th, and tomorrow will spend the day with our living and loving children, and together we'll visit Tia's resting place, set flowers, read cards and wrap ourselves in love. And even though we have a grave for Tia, we're always told our kids, and ourselves, that she isn't there, at that grave, but with us, she's with us when we're home. She's around us.
I just want this day to be over, but I have to face it, and it'll forever be the last day her heart still beat.
