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Sasha’s?
    How can you be so insensitive?
    As much as I loved the name ‘Savannah,’ as much as it just suited our baby, I rebelled, skirted it, found fault with it.
    “Eh, well…I mean…isn’t it hard to spell?”
    Eventually, Bear cottoned onto me. “Let’s choose another name,” he said in a gentle voice.
    “No, no, no, Bear,” I hastened to add, seeing the helpless look on his face. “Savannah is a lovely name and it just s…suits her. I’m happy with it, B…Bear.”
    “Then why you crying so much, Arena?” he asked, moving to take me in his arms. “I don’t know what to do, baby. Tell me what to do, how I can help you? You cry all the time.”
    It was then that the floodgates opened.
    I broke down and sobbed. Bawled unabashedly in his arms, babbling about my guilt, my conflict and how unfair I was being toward Savannah.
    I was in such a fragile state, my doctors feared a nervous breakdown, so my therapist, who specializes in grief counseling, had to pay me a visit while I was in the hospital.
    “I want to keep her name Sasha!” I blurted. “That’s what I really want. I want to forget that I lost a baby. Deep down, I do want to replace Sasha, erase the past, my fatal mistake. and …I am ashamed that I feel this way. Please help me not to feel this way.”
    After talking to her for two hours, she left and came back every day for a week for a therapy session, during which time, we formulated some coping strategies
    Bear held my hand every step of the way and nursed me back to being whole again.
    He often sat in my therapy sessions to further assist me.
    During therapy, it was agreed that we would not name Savannah for a month.
    It was a relief not to.
    By the end of the month, I was able to successfully implement some of coping strategies. I accepted the name Savannah because it just fit so beautifully, and I fought to see her as another one of my children, not as a replacement for Sasha or a punishment.
    “You can be known as a victim or a survivor,” my therapist said.
    I chose to be a survivor.
    Now, I may never see Savannah again. After all that I’ve been through when she was born.
    I should have loved Savannah more.
    I should have hugged her more.
    I should have …
    Assailed by guilt, with a fist full of should-haves, I curl into fetal position on the patio chair and weep.
    7:25 AM. Fatima and Soong and a few of my good friends, women I can count on, arrive within minutes of each other, red-eyed and blotchy-faced.
    “Tom has her,” I say. “I know that for a fact. It’s no coincidence.”
    They cry with me, hold me, and weep for Savannah as if she’s already gone.
    I don’t blame them. We’ve all been there, done that, held a funeral before. How can I possibly expect them to stay positive when there isn’t a kernel of hope inside me?
    In spite of their grief, they’re a great help; making coffee, answering my phone, talking to friends, watching the TV for news and keeping me updated. Most of all, they take care of Warren and Amy.
    Bear stays away from me. Hangs around outside the house, morose and hunched. Now and then, he gets into his SUV and drives around looking for his baby.
    Even though I will myself to go to him, to take him in my arms and share grief, I don’t, because I just can’t bear to look into his accusing eyes.
    Savannah, baby, communicate with Mummy. Fight, please fight. Mummy is a fighter, you are a fighter too. Please …
    My head hurts, my eyes are swollen from crying, and my voice is hoarse from shouting out Savannah’s name.
    “Mum?”
    I look up into Warren’s face. “Is Savannah going to …to …like… die like Sasha?” His eyes are watery and his bottom lip quivers as he struggles to skirt the word ‘die.’
    To hear him utter those words, even though they’re on everyone’s lips and minds, horrifies me. Quickly, I reach out, grab him, and jerk him into my arms. “No,” I whisper, hugging him tight, my tears wetting his t-shirt. “No!”
    He