THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED: Mia was my closest girl friend, my BFF. We met in a tort study group at law school. She tried to get pregnant and I tried not to have dead babies. We struggled over case law and fertility and trained for a breast cancer marathon together. Troy and I and she and Marc, her husband, went camping in the Rocky Mountains and gambling in Las Vegas. We talked about opening up a law firm together. Then she took drugs to stimulate ovulation and developed a cyst. While they were removing the cyst, she had a reaction to the anesthetic and went into a coma. She was brain dead. We watched appliances force air, and drip fluids and nutrients into her arms.

Four days later, Marc unplugged her equipment. We held each other’s hands and cried.

There was an eerie silence when the machines stopped their breathing.

A lazy echo in the room. Then Mia was no more.

Twenty-six and dead.

That’s worse than thirty-four.

That was two and a half weeks ago.

Since then, I wake up with a bolt and try to figure it all out.

4:30.

Why does my life revolve around tragedy when I have so many blessings? Rachel. Troy. A job that I love. A boss who allows me to work part-time until Rachel is in preschool full-time.

When genetic testing results on Rachel were okay, I asked Mia, “You’re not going to be so sad about this for yourself that we won’t be friends anymore, are you?”

We had just finished running five miles on the beach. I was already slow from the extra weight of the pregnancy, and we were both breathless. She said, “I wish it were me, but if not me, I’m glad it’s you.” It was California winter. Not quite so many flowers. The impatiens sparse and pale. We had run along the beach, the breeze keeping us cool, and now we were walking through a marina that reflected the cloudless sky and a few palm trees.

“We can share her. You can come over anytime for a baby fix.”

“I’ll catch up to you. In a few months, these new drugs will work and we’ll be pushing strollers while we run.” I thought, Tara’s baby is six months older than Rachel, Mia’s might be six months younger. I like symmetry. That was more than two years ago.

It didn’t work out that way.

A week ago, Rachel jumped in a swimming pool for the first time and I reached for the phone to call Mia.

Then I remembered she was dead, and my arm fell limply to my side. I saw a woman in Nordstroms with hair streaked like hers and I called, “Mia.” And then blushed, embarrassed.

I miss her selfishly. I miss that she’s not here for me.