My parents drove down the day before the surgery so they could drive us to the hospital in the morning. They picked us up at a quarter to six and I felt like it was some otherworldly version of that Ben Folds Five song, Brick. Except, you know, just a d&c of a baby that had already died, not an abortion exactly. Or not an elective one but one that was elected for me.

We drove through the darkened city streets, arrived early. The hospital has valet parking and the parents were impressed. "This is why you pick a hospital on the Upper East Side," I tell them. "It's the little things that make a difference."

We went to the ambulatory surgery floor, where I was presented with a hospital gown (ties in the back), too small pants (skip em), a slightly too small robe (theoretically ties in the front... Am I the first pregnant woman they've ever had? I know I'm not the biggest) some non-skid socks and the famous mesh panties. Parents went down to the waiting room while my husband helped me into my ensemble and waited for the pre-surgical testing with me. They brought warm blankets and I snuggled up in the vinyl recliner to await my fate. The husband and I spent a lot of time just looking at each other. I loved him then more than I ever have before.

The nurse who came over to install my IV port and go through the pre-surgical questions had no sense of humor, it seemed. Or maybe my gallows humor just doesn't play so well in the hospital. She screwed up my IV port and there was blood all over the place. "It's okay," I joked, "I'm a criminal defense attorney. Once you see crime scene photos, a little blood is no big deal." "Oh, that must be am interesting job," she replied, in a tone that said she couldn't care less. The best part was when she asked "what does excellent care look like to you?" Mom says she was probably expecting answers like "respect my privacy" or "answer my questions promptly" but I went blank. My husband and I looked at each other and shrugged. "Come out alive?" I said, laughing. "Don't perforate my uterus?" "Good snacks in the recovery room!" he chimed in. The nurse didn't crack a smile, scribbled something down and left, giving us her packet of papers to add my signatures.

"Oh my God, look," my husband said, "she actually wrote down 'come out alive'!" We laughed our asses off.

At 8:30, they came for me. "Feels like walking to death row," I said. They made me leave my glasses with my parents, so the walk to the OR was mercifully blurry. I could make out a few compassionate smiles above the blurs of green scrubs. The OR nurses were so sweet. They got me pillows, stacked up blankets to make my back more comfy, gave me a special blanket with warm air running through it to calm me down and warm me up. My doctor came in, squeezed my hand and said, "next time we are here, it will be to have your baby."

And then the mask, and deep breaths, and sleep.

When I woke up they were lifting me onto the bed to the recovery room. I was sobbing for my baby. My body was sobbing even without being awake. It knew without me having to tell it what it had lost. I sobbed all the way to the recovery room. I could feel the sobs in my soul, in my toes, through my whole body. But then there was the kindest nurse, and more warm blankets tucked around me, and then there was my husband stroking my hair, and I felt the weight lifting. The storm was over. The rainbow would come soon.

I had to pee, and the nurse said she couldn't unhook me from the EKG and IV and all the monitors just yet, so she brought over a bedpan. "Well, there goes the last shred of my dignity," I joked, grinning at her. She looked at me and whispered, "you know what, honey? You've been through enough today. I'm gonna unhook you and walk you to the bathroom if you promise not to lock the door, okay?" And she did. We shuffled ten steps to the bathroom with her holding my arm, I peed in glorious peace and then we shuffled back and she brought me ginger ale and my mom.

The second recovery room was much more fun. They had sandwiches and graham crackers and I could sit in a chair with just my IV pole still attached. Both of my parents and Ed were there and Ed was munching on some saltines and was like, your insurance probably paid thirty bucks for these crackers.... I'm getting their money's worth! And I laughed, and we all knew once I could laugh that everything was definitely going to be okay eventually.

Recovery at home was remarkably easy. No pain, barely any bleeding. I was on on modified bed rest for a few days, which was fine by me. I wouldn't have minded staying there forever, honestly. I was scared about the future, about what would happen when life went on again without my child.

But I knew that would be okay eventually too. On the day the baby had probably died, according to the doctors, I was walking to work and I saw the most beautiful thing. It was a tree full of red breasted robins. You never see those in the city - pigeons of course, sparrows here and there but never robins. And the tree was just packed with them, and in that moment I just knew it was my bird-loving grandpa who died when I was fourteen telling me that he was here, and that everything was going to be okay. At the time, I figured it meant the baby would be okay... Would live, thrive, grow. But now I know he meant a different kind of okay. I'm here, he was saying, I will take your baby in my arms and fly him up to heaven. And you will see us again, if you know where to look.

Right now, it's in my heart. I can see it - Grandpa Ed cradling our tiny thing in his big, strong, kind and loving arms, with Grandma Rose peeking over to pinch its cheeks and Grandpa George trying to convince the baby he has eleven fingers.("See, on this hand I have ten, nine, eight, seven, six... and on this hand, one, two, three, four, five... five plus six equals eleven!") I carried my son when I could, and when I couldn't anymore, they took over. That's family. That's love. Just like the friends coming by to just sit with me and listen, my parents saying prayers in the waiting room, my husband being strong enough to watch them poke my vein over and over while just giving me his strength through his gaze and his hands. That's family, that's love. It's everywhere now.