I’m Sorry, Baby.
You’re still in there, but you didn’t have a chance at life. You’re in there, but not growing. Your heart never beat. Your Dad and I wanted you. We wanted you so much. We would have loved for you to join our family. Your sister and brother would have loved you so very much. They would have showered you with kisses. You would have loved them too.
I had a feeling something was wrong. I felt different with you than I did with my other pregnancies. You didn’t make me nauseous — not even close to how I felt with your brother and sister. That was the first sign that something might be off. It was too good to be true. But I tried to silence the anxiety ridden thoughts in my head. I tried to focus on the positive and be hopeful. Your Daddy kept telling me, “Every pregnancy is different.” I tried to tell myself that too. But my gut was telling me otherwise.
And a few days before your first ultrasound I looked at my belly in my clothes. And I looked at my belly in the mirror. I looked long and hard. I remembered how at this point I had to hide my pregnancy with your brother because I wasn’t out of the first trimester but was showing much earlier the second time around. But not with you. I didn’t have to hide you.
And the day came. And I knew sitting in that waiting room chair for my name to be called. I felt sick to my stomach. I tried to prepare myself emotionally for the let down. I didn’t want to get my hopes up only to be crushed. But in the back of my mind I was hoping and praying that everything was okay and that this pregnancy was in fact “just different.” I wanted them to tell me that everything was fine. And that you were growing and well. So I could breathe.
When I heard my name called I felt a mix of both relief and apprehension. I could feel my heart beating through my shirt as I walked into the ultrasound room. I forced a smile at the sweet and soft spoken technician who congratulated me as I placed my bag gently on the floor. Your Daddy, who could sense my hesitation, told her I was concerned that everything wasn’t okay.
We got down to business and I stared at that screen. My eyes fixated on that black and white screen. And I knew right away. I knew when I saw that sac filled with a round mass. You didn’t resemble a little gummy bear. Your heart wasn’t beating. I knew before she even said it.
The technician apologized. A tear streamed down my warm face. I was trying to be strong. I couldn’t look at your Daddy because if I did, I would have fallen apart. So I continued to stare at you on that screen while the technician continued to speak. She told us that even though the sac which surrounded you measured at 9.5 weeks, you stopped growing around 6 weeks. That was the end of your journey. 6 weeks.
The technician who could sense my growing sadness tried to wrap up the exam as quickly as possible. I slowly got up from the reclined chair and put on my clothes in silence. I stared straight ahead, my head tilted toward the floor. A nurse escorted us to a side room where we would wait for the doctor. As soon as the door closed behind her I burst into tears as I clung to your Dad. We wanted you.
I’m sorry, Baby. I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance. I’m sorry your journey never really started. I’m sorry you didn’t get to join our family and get kisses and big hugs from your brother and sister. I’m sorry, but I know these things happen. I know that so many women experience this hurt. This loss. I know my friends and family have. But I was hoping it wouldn’t happen to me. I was hoping it wouldn’t happen to you. But it has and I am so sorry. I wanted you. We wanted you. We loved you.
I am so sorry, Baby.