Note:  This story is true. It happened in February, 1993, when I was pregnant with my daughter, Caitlin.  This is written in loving memory of Katherine Loree Brockington Miller.  I miss you.
 
 

"Damn water," I grumble to myself as I wait. It seems like an eternity. I shift in my hard waiting room chair, trying to find a comfortable position. There isn't one.  I run my hands over my swollen stomach, silently praying that the baby will keep still.  It doesn't. It decides to turn somersaults inside its watery cocoon.  "Oh, please, baby," I whisper. "Not now."  I feel the gentle pressure against my bladder and my eyes grow wide as I fight against my body's natural need to get rid of some of the fluid there.
 

My eyes dart to the door leading from the waiting room to the examining area.  "Come on folks, any time now."  I check my watch for the hundredth time. It's only moved a fraction since last time I checked.  It seems like I've been sitting here for hours.  I pick up another magazine that's ages old and thumb through it, barely seeing the ads for a movie that I saw and forgot a long time ago.  I think about the changes in my life over the past few months, especially in the past week.
 

I fight my natural urges once again as I think about what's happened.  My eyes grow moist as the tears well.  I battle against them but one escapes and slowly travels down my cheek.  I contemplate life and death as I gently rub my swollen stomach again.  I consider this tender new life that I'm going to bring into the world in another two months.  Even as I curse it for kicking against my full bladder I praise it for simply existing.  It is precious.
 

"Damn water," I grumble as I pick up my glass and take another sip.  Many others in the waiting room are doing the same thing and we exchange misery glances with each other as we sit and rub our bellies.  One woman finally cracks under the pressure and hoists herself to her feet to waddle to the window. "I have to go NOW," she frantically tells the receptionist.  The rest of us lower our eyes for we know what lecture is to come next.
 

I can see the nurse's sleeve as she perches against the window.  When I hear her voice I know immediately which nurse it is. It's the young, perky, skinny one who's never had a baby and never had to drink a thousand glasses of water and never had a future pro football player practicing place kicking with her full bladder.  I hate her.  We all hate her and her skinniness and her perkiness and the fact that she knows what her feet look like.
 

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but if you go to the bathroom now we won't be able to do the ultrasound and get a clear picture of your baby," she says in her perky voice. My hands tighten as I control the urge to strangle her.  As if I could get myself up out of the chair to get to her perkiness.  The frantic woman argues for a moment then gives up and sits back down, her face tight and pinched in her misery.  The lady next to her reaches over and pats her hand in a silent gesture of understanding.
 

"Damn water," I hear another woman grumble as she sips on her glass.
 

The door opens and a name is called. Not my name though.  I chime in with the chorus of disappointed sighs as the door shuts behind the lucky victim.  By my count I should be the next one to be called back.  I hope so.  I check my watch again.  I thump it. Has the stupid thing stopped?
 

The baby decides to do the backstroke in its soft cushion of water.  I feel the life stirring deep within me and I smile as tears sting my eyes again.  I think of this new life, and the one that was lost just a day ago.  I feel numb all over, still in shock, I suppose.  I want the old life and the new one.  I want the person I lost and the person I don't even know yet. But I can't have both.
 

Just as the tears start to overflow the door opens again and finally my name is called.  I carefully put my hands on the arms of the chair and use my whole upper body to haul myself up.  As I sway unsteadily, trying to get my balance, I feel my whole insides shift and pray that my over-full bladder doesn't betray me.  I try to be lady-like and walk to the nurse who waits patiently.  I'm thankful it's not the perky one. I couldn't face her cheerfulness today. Not today. Never today.
 

The nurse who waits for me reads a note on my chart. A note that was made when I called for an earlier appointment so that I could have my ultrasound a day early. I have to attend a funeral on the date first scheduled.  She looks at me in sympathy. "Are you doing okay, dear?" she asks kindly as we go through the normal routine of weighing and blood pressure.
 

I try to smile.  I know that my face shows how I'm feeling.  My eyes are red-rimmed and swollen from crying.  Dark circles underneath tell the story of my sleepless nights.  Before my thoughts have the chance to go too far into my loss, I hear the gentle nurse again.  "We're going to skip the urine test for now.  You need all that fluid in your bladder so that we can see your baby."  She pats my hand and leads me to the exam room.
 

She instructs me to lift my shirt out of the way and pull my maternity pants down to expose my belly.  As I do so I again feel the baby shift in its fluid.  I run my hands protectively over my stomach.  I am thankful that my baby can't feel the pain and sorrow that I feel right now.  The loss of the person who was snatched away from me.  Away from us all.
 

The nurse squirts that gel onto my stomach. I flinch.  "Damn cold stuff," I think as she spreads it over my belly.  Just then the doctor comes in, all matter of fact and no nonsense.  "Now then, let's see what we have," she says as she pulls her little rolling stool up close to me and turns on the monitors.  The nurse dims the light so we can see the screen better.  The doctor picks up the instrument and rolls it through the cold gel on my stomach.  She presses down.  My eyes widen again as she and the baby put more pressure on my bladder.  "Oh, good," she says as she looks at the monitor.  "Your bladder's nice and full, so we should get a good picture of this little one," she says.
 

"You're telling me," I mutter.  A thousand glasses of water.  It should be full.  She moves the instrument around, and I see the outline of the baby on the screen.  The doctor points out various things, the head, the spine, hands and legs and feet.  Then she asks if I want to know the sex.
 

"Yes," I whisper, afraid of her answer.  I already have a boy and a girl, so it doesn't make a lot of difference, and yet, because of my loss, it makes all the difference in the world.  I hold my breath as she presses harder on my stomach to get a better picture.
 

I fight against my bladder.  The doctor finally points to the monitor.  "See that?" she asks.  "There's nothing there between its little legs.  So you're going to have a beautiful, healthy little girl."
 

"A girl," I whisper.
 

The doctor finishes her exam as I lay there lost in thought.  A girl.  A female to replace the wonderful female who I lost.  As I lie on the table I can't fight my tears any longer.  The nurse whispers something to the doctor, who then looks at me with pity.  "I'm sorry for your loss," she tells me and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.  "We'll give you some time alone."  She hands me a box of tissues and they both leave the room.
 

I lie there. My bladder full.  My belly full.  My eyes full.  All these precious life fluids.  I'm alive.  And she's not.  My baby's alive.  But she's not.  I snatch at the tissue box as the tears start to cascade.  I close my eyes to try to stem the flow.  In the semi-dark room I feel a gentle touch on my hair.  Almost like a woman's gentle hand.
 

"A girl," I whisper.
 

In the darkness I can hear her voice.  "I know," she chuckles.  "I knew before you did.  You see, I'm in heaven now, and God told me."
 

I cry and laugh at the same time.  I think of the wonderful woman I've lost.  And of the wonderful girl I'll have. I know that I'll have to tell her how her grandmother was the first one to know.  The first one to see her inside my womb.  The first one to know that she would be a girl.
 

I feel the gentle hands brush against my hair again as the babe stirs in my belly.  I don't open my eyes.  I share this moment with the one who is gone and the one who is yet to be.