What was I doing a year ago today? Can I remember?
It was a day like any other, of that I'm sure, and yet from the vantage point of the future, it was a day entirely like any other. For it was to be the day that would mark the boundary between before and after. It was a day in which I unknowingly hung on the precipice.
I was seven months pregnant, and of one thing I'm certain. It was a day in which I had finally, after several hospitalizations and scares, a surgery at 24 weeks followed by a month of sick leave, become comfortable and complacent in my pregnancy. I was finally relaxing, allowing some of the tension and fear that had drained me for the first seven months drift away.
To the details. Was it sunny out that day? Rainy? Cold? Warm? This I cannot retrieve from my memory. A historical search tells me that it was cool outside, a high of 14 degrees, and that there was 36 mm of precipitation that day. Not surprising really, as I recall the next few days spent staring out the window at the gray skies.
It was a Tuesday. A work day.
There, dimly, a scene comes to mind. A boardroom and a meeting - droning on - Charity Week planning. Pizza parties, candygrams and silent auctions. The usual corporate attempt at drumming up some cash prior to the holiday season.
Did I work late? Likely. In retrospect, it would not surprise me that I was wasting my few remaining hours in the office.
What did I do when I came home? Did I have dinner with Mr Babbler, or was he, too, working late? Did we watch TV together? Spend time together talking, touching, kissing?
Did I read a few chapters from my book, The Historian (one of the few details that comes clearly to mind, as my bookmark still remains in place at page 94, where I was interrupted a few days later, the book never to be picked up again. A memorial to a time, a place, a momentous event.)
Did we crawl into bed together that night, and hold each other, draw each other close? Perhaps, or perhaps we fell into bed, tired and exhausted wanting only to sleep, needing only to get through the work week, still blissfully unaware of what the next day would bring us.
This time, the memory of this last evening together, as simply us, lost for all time.
When I drifted to sleep, did I dream of the baby inside of me? Did I hold my belly tight, feeling the rolling tumbles and the sudden kicks? Could I feel a change, a sudden decisiveness, a purposefulness, to my little Peanut's drifting movements? As I dreamed, did my subconscious know what my mind did not - that our time together as a single entity was rapidly drawing to a close, so much sooner than I ever could have imagined.
If I had known, would I have stayed awake all night, holding tight to Mr Babbler, holding tight to the baby inside me? Would I have clung wildly to that last time together, as it slipped slipped slipped so swiftly through my fingers?