My friend D

I'm reading Elizabeth McCracken's An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, a memoir about losing her baby boy - "Pudding" - at term. I've put the book down many times to catch my breath or wipe my eyes because she has just described an emotion, a thought, a memory, an experience that I thought was unique only to me.

There's a beautiful chapter about her friends, and how they reached out to her when Pudding died. She also talks about friends she lost through the experience - people who didn't reach out because they were afraid or uncomfortable, or did it much too late, and she was never able to reconcile with them.

I have known my friend D since 1992, so 17 years. We have lived together, worked together, traveled together. Having left home fairly young, it's safe to say I'm as close to her (closer?) as I am to my biological sisters. She is family I chose.

D is not outwardly a touchy-feely woman. We've never had the kind of friendship where we waltz into one another's place unannounced and help outselves to what's in the fridge, though I have often thought I'd like that. She's a very strong, very independent woman, and I admire her as much as I love her. We have been through a lot.

When Bronwyn died, we had been in hospital a few days. My parents flew from clear across this enormous country, and they were touching down just as we found out Bronwyn was gone. They stayed at our house and spent a sleepless night while I was in labour, and they came to the hospital the next day.

The chaplain at the hospital was a kind, cheery woman - pretty strongly Catholic, I think she said, but used to dealing with all the faiths and lack of faith - and she had planned a naming ceremony and blessing for Bronwyn there in the hospital. My Mom and Dad were there with us, and so was my dear friend D.

The chaplin held our Bronwyn like she was still alive and wriggling, and spoke directly to her in a way that broke my heart and comforted me at the same time. I don't remember much of what was said, but seeing the Chaplin kiss her on the head, seeing Mom and Dad and D kiss her while she was in my arms, is a memory I come back to again and again and again.

In the days and weeks since, I've become more aware that some people don't consider my Bronwyn a "real baby" because she never lived outside of me. That makes me angry, and sometimes it makes me obsess on her "realness" myself. It doesn't help that the whole experience still has a bad dream, surreal quality - like a horrible experience that I only heard about because it happened to someone else.

But one thing comforts me, clears my mind and reassures me that she was, and is, real - D saw her. And touched her, and kissed her.

D has been incredibly kind and caring throughout this whole experience, and I'm sure she will continue to be, but I don't know if she realizes the gift she has given me by actually laying eyes and hands and lips on Bronwyn. Bronwyn will never be known by the world at large, but she was known by my friend D.