Dichotomy

A few days ago Sarah asked to see a photo (which doesn't exist) of me holding Jane the day she died. See, I had explained to her that day, when she asked how it happened, that Jane had died while she was in my arms, that she hadn't been alone. In classic preschooler fashion, weeks later she pulled her question out of wherever she'd been seasoning it and sprung it on me while I was helping her brush teeth. Or some equally meaningful moment. Anyway, there is no such picture. But I did take some photos of Jane earlier that morning -- I'm not going to post them here (honestly, people, I can't share EVERYTHING with you), but I didn't want to regret not having a last picture of her.

(After I took my impromptu photos, the hospital social worker stopped by and asked if I wanted a volunteer from an organization that does professional photography after the death of a child. At first I said no -- it just felt ghoulish -- but then I changed my mind. And it turned out there was no one available anyway. Which was FINE. I don't need a [for lack of a better term] death portrait. But so many families don't have the time with their children that we had; this organization could be providing people with the only pictures they'll ever have of their kids. It's heartbreaking.)

So I showed the photos to Sarah this afternoon. She wanted to know if Jane was dead in the pictures and I said no, but that she looked pretty much the same in the pictures as she had after she died. (I figured that was why Sarah had been asking -- she wanted to see if Jane looked any different when she was dead.) So Sarah's all, "Aww!" and making cute noises over the many pictures of Jane on my phone and then flipping to the good stuff -- pictures of herself -- while I'm looking at these photos of our girl from just a few days earlier, when she was awake and alert and herself, and the tears just wouldn't stop. Sarah asked what was wrong, I told her I was sad about Jane, then she said she was sad, too, and we cried a little. And then Sarah asked me to read Tomie de Paola's Nana Upstairs, Nana Downstairs, and I leaked some more surreptitious tears.

After dinner, Tom was putting Sarah to bed and I was doing the dishes and rocking out to the Emotions' "Best of My Love" (shut up; I learned the Hustle in grade school gym. I'm OLD) and the Go-Go's (SHUT UP), and it felt just as good to be doing my embarrassing white girl dancing as I cleaned the kitchen as it had to cry over the pictures I can't bring myself to delete off my phone even though there are backups on the computer.

I guess this is how it goes. Life and stuff. We keep on dancing even after the tears.