I remember Kyria.
I remember taking the home pregnancy test and being astonished that it was positive.
I remember canceling my thyroid surgery that would have been the next week.
I remember singing in our worship service and feeling such joy, but also such guilt, because this baby would not exist if Naomi had not died.
I remember realizing that my due date would be our anniversary, and that maybe this would be how God would redeem our loss of Naomi.
I remember standing in the kitchen and suddenly realizing that something was terribly wrong.
I remember calling my best friend, who had miscarried some nine months earlier, and asking her what I should do.
I remember her coming and keeping me company until my husband came home.
I remember going in for an ultrasound the next mornings and hearing the impossible - our baby was still alive!
I remember holding on to hope, knowing that I had a subchorionic hemorrhage, something that was not necessarily deadly to my baby.
I remember the nurse midwife saying the gestational sac was too big, too abnormal.
I remember holding on to hope anyway, because our baby was still alive.
I remember practically skipping back into work, because our baby was still alive.
I remember the next week, the next ultrasound, but this time, there was silence. Our baby was gone.
I remember sitting in a conference room, waiting to talk with my nurse midwife.
I remember hating that room, just like I hated the cemetery where we buried Naomi.
I remember waiting to miscarry naturally.
I remember waiting three weeks, knowing our baby was already gone.
I remember sobbing in my classroom with a friend because someone had asked me how many children I had.
I remember finally scheduling a D&C, fearful that I could develop an infection over the Thanksgiving holiday.
I remember how caring the physician and nurses were.
I remember going to sleep and I was still pregnant.
I remember waking up and I wasn't anymore, and how empty that felt.
I remember singing in the worship service and wondering what I had done wrong, what I still needed to learn, to have to go through this again.
I remember thinking that no one should have more babies in Heaven than on Earth.
I remember going back for my six-week checkup, and the doctor specifically asking how I was doing, emotionally, and how much that meant to me.
I remember that it took months for my hcg levels to get back to "normal", as if my body was as reluctant to let go of Kyria as I was.
I remember that instead of a memorial service this time, we put a single yellow rose on the altar one Sunday in December, in remembrance of our third child, Kyria Hope.
I remember how people came up to us afterward with their own stories of loss.
I remember thinking how a yellow rose brought us together...and the seed of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Sunday was planted.
I remember choosing her name - Kyria from 2 John, "to the lady chosen by God", and Hope because I wanted desperately to be placing my hope in God Himself, and not just in what I wanted Him to give me...another child.
I remember that if she had lived, she would be four years old now.