A year ago today my sister rushed me to the hospital for what would be my second ectopic rupture. I recall distinctly the old man in the ER that gave me his seat when I could not stand. I remember begging the nurse for drugs and throwing up into a bag as I violently shook, kneeling on the bed as they hooked up my IV. I remember the warm feeling as the fentanyl traveled through my system causing the searing pain to retreat to a dull ache.

And I remember thinking, “Not again.”

When I woke up from surgery I had lost another child.

When I had my first ectopic in 2016, I had read that it could help you heal if you named your baby, so that’s when we named Hazel.

Last year it almost seemed silly to name the baby- after all I had only known about the pregnancy for a few hours before it was over, but the thing was, I missed her. I missed that child. I missed everything she was going to be. And as the weeks passed, the thought kept gnawing at the back of my head and shortly thereafter I named her Harriet.

My father’s decline came on the heels of that loss and the morning my father died, I sat holding his hand. There was no one else in the room, just him and me. I kissed his cheek and asked him to say hello to Hazel and Harriet when he met them in heaven. I don’t know that he heard me, he never responded, but I’m confident he knows them now.

And one day so will I. What a joyful thought, indeed!

Until then, Happy Harriet Day, my friends.