Our last essay from Kate Hopper's Mother Words online class is a breathtaking piece by a grieving mother

"Rollercoasting" by Prinna

I'm riding a rollercoaster at the Mall of America three days after my daughter died. Three days after the doctor in the emergency room told me with no tears in his eyes, "your baby is dead." Three days after I cradled my 9-month-old baby's lifeless body and kissed her and stroked her newly curly hair for the final time. Three days after I collapsed in a heap on the bathroom floor and decided I'd stay there forever. This is a strange thing I'm doing now, right? I am, after all, terrified of amusement park rides. A ride operator once had to stop a kiddie ride I was on when I was 16 years old because I started screaming profanities. I am not a rollercoaster kind of girl. But here I am, standing in line with my sister and my three aunts in from the East coast for the funeral—getting ready to board the largest rollercoaster in the park. The sweet smells of the mall mingle together and waft by me as I'm pulled to the front of a long line. The music and bright lights hit me from every direction. The mothers, some happy and carefree, stroll past with their sticky-faced, smiley children. Others hold onto their last nerve as they try to tame the untamable. And still others who seem completely oblivious to their children, chatting away on their cell phones. And among all of these mothers circling around me, for the first time I see another subset. A subset I decide to call "the lucky ones." The ones pushing the double strollers. I too had pushed a double stroller through this very mall just a week ago. My oldest daughter's curls bouncing in the front seat as she chatted to her unseen audience and my youngest daughter looking up at me intently from her infant carrier as we covered all three floors in record time. We were at this mall for no real purpose, as we often were. Just spending the day together, taking in all the excitement of such a big place. Rewarding ourselves with ice cream from the store where the teenager behind the counter could toss the vanilla with M&Ms high in the air and catch it in a cup. My rubbery legs manage to shuffle forward a few spots and I think more about these lucky ones with their double strollers. Do they realize that their strollers signify a lifestyle, a sign of things to come? With two children young enough to be companions in the same stroller, they are in for some sleepless nights and a big dose of serious sibling rivalry. Especially when those kids are both girls. My mind shifts to my own mother and I wonder what she did with my sister and me when we were this young – before they had these fancy "Duo Glider" and "Sit and Stand" strollers that allow children to ride in luxury with their personal cup holders, overstuffed seat pads and optional riding positions. With two babies only 11 months apart, she surely had faced some stroller conundrums. And definitely some serious sibling rivalry. But still, she had been one of the "lucky ones." Speaking of my sister, she's noticed my desperate, wanting glances at all the "lucky ones" drifting around. The longer I stand in this line, the more I see. She grasps my arm with tears in her eyes, pleading. "Prinna, don't." As if to save me from the gut wrenching reality that I was no longer part of this double stroller club. I tell myself I'll have it much easier with my single stroller. My single daughter. No more waiting for the elevators and jockeying for a place to park such a beast. No more jokes about pushing a train. The constant worry of ramming into something I couldn't even see. No. I could easily manage my single. Escalators would once again be available to us. The days of wrestling with straps and bars and handles over. My single could get herself in and out with no help from me. But despite our protective efforts, my thoughts are unstoppable. I am hit with this single stroller realization like a cold tidal wave. As the coaster starts off slowly down the track, I close my eyes and picture my happy Sophia's face riding in that double stroller through this mall. The wheels of the car creak and squeak as we climb up the first of too many slopes. Slowly. Slowly. And finally that first rush of speed as we plunge. The faster the car falls, the tighter I close my eyes. The tighter I grip the safety bar. The tighter I tried to hold onto the memory of this final double stroller day. I know now that I didn't ride that rollercoaster just to be polite to my out of town guests. I had been numb since the hospital and I desperately wanted to feel something. Anything. Even if it was fear.