I’m not sure why we were gathered in this outer part of the church, rather than inside, but this was the first time I’d attended a service like this. And god help me, it would be the last.
I don’t remember a lot about it, other than the sight of the tiny pink urn in the center. I don’t remember what the priest said, or what the urn was sitting on, or who was there, other than my husband and my kids and my intended parents and their two living daughters. I know there were others there, but I can’t quite picture them anymore.
I do remember that no one there was crying. The mood was somber, to be sure, but somehow the presence of young children at a funeral helps keep the focus on the beauty in the world, rather than the crushing pain inside.
I distracted myself by watching my previous surrogate baby fidgeting in her father’s arms. At only 21 months old, she had no idea why we were there, but her older sister did. She was there in the exam room with us the day the doctor gave us the grave diagnosis.