"What are you doing right now?" Crying.

I try to keep myself steady before I go to bed, or else I toss and turn and cry all night, and the next day at work is even more painful. I also know my tossing and turning, my getting out of bed and blowing my nose and sighing, keeps my husband up too, or gets him tossing and turning.

Last night I made a big mistake. I checked Facebook before I went to bed. Facebook has become nothing but a painful reminder of what happened, and a representation of all my angry thoughts. Facebook illustrates very clearly that, yes, EVERYONE has a healthy child but me, and many are currently showing off their "bump" while they grow what will inevitably be yet another healthy baby. They have pregnancy tickers, and coming-home-with-baby photos, and even their profile picture is likely not a photo of them at all, but of their kid or kids.

Within my small group at work, there were three of us pregnant at the same time. This was very unusual - no one had been pregnant in this group for about 15 years. (It's the kind of grind woman flee from before they get pregnant, I suppose. Not exactly a good fit for "family life.") The first was due late in November, the second was due at Christmas, and I was due on February 4. There were three baby pools, plans for three send-offs, three cards to be circulated. We spoke often about getting together with the babies when we were all on maternity leave. One of the women lives just a few streets over, the other not much further away.

But, of course, there were just two babies in the end. The first colleague had a healthy little boy in November. I delivered my beautiful, still daughter on December 16. On Boxing Day, my other colleague had a healthy baby boy. Two little boys on either end, and my dead little girl in the middle.

Of course, last night on Facebook I saw a photo of their little boys together. I knew this photo would be coming down the pipe sometime, but it hit me like a baseball bat in the chest. Two beautiful babies, where I had always imagined three. I started thinking of my little girl, like a ghost between them. And the sobbing started, lasting well into the night.

I need to give up Facebook. I've got no status updates that are fit for public consumption anyway. "What are you doing right now?" Well, I'm calling the hospital to see when the autopsy results will be in. I'm trying to decide when we'll be ready to pick up my daughter's ashes. I'm looking into support groups for bereaved parents. Not sure what my 200 "friends" would make of those.