To our baby with no heartbeat.

I knew. I knew in my bones as soon as the technician asked me to dress while she went and got your Dad – that you had no heartbeat. I felt jittery and ill as I dressed and waited. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know everything. Be wrong. Be wrong. Kevin came in with Kaden and we were left together. ‘I don’t think it’s a viable pregnancy’ I blurted out. ‘She was so quick, she said nothing… I don’t think there is a heartbeat.’ We waited forever. I knew. Do Moms just know? The technician finally came in with a doctor. ‘You can just say it’ I snapped (willing myself to be wrong). ‘There is no heartbeat.’ He mumbled his condolences and I asked if we could just leave. My mind rolled and heaved as I struggled to get to the car. All of the lies I had been telling myself leading up to this ultrasound (‘this wasn’t planned – so if it doesn’t work out – that’s ok’ or ‘there’s usually a good reason for miscarriage – incompatibility with life – so it can be a good thing’ or ‘ we have a healthy baby – that will soften the blow’) had splintered and disintegrated into a thousand, irrelevant pieces.

Turns out, giving myself reasons to justify loss didn’t help me when we lost you. We cared. It was/is devastating. We are disappointed beyond belief. Our initial surprise had made way for anticipation, excitement and planning. Life had been shifted and tweaked to ensure all would be well to welcome you into our lives. There was support and excitement all around us as we shared we were expecting you. You were a surprise but (once the shock wore off) a most welcome and delicious surprise. And in an instant – that anticipation was withdrawn from us. We wanted you… And now we are left to grieve you. We are grieving the time spent growing you. The thrill of looking forward to you. And what life would have been once you arrived. We have spent these past months growing you, protecting you and now we are discussing ways which we can evacuate you. I have never felt more dead and more emotionally charged in my entire life. I know miscarriage is common and it breaks my heart to think of sharing this experience. It is nauseating, ugly, desperate, cruel and a thief of joy. And today – it has ruined me. There is a part of my brain that knows I will have to say a proper goodbye to you, I will pick myself up and I will begin to mend… But for now I will mourn you. I will weep over you. I will allow my mind to run through all the dreams I had for you. I will cling to my family. And then I will let you go.

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