I don't talk about this much. In fact, I've never talked about this subject in detail. But for some reason, I feel like I need to share. Mostly to purge what I've hidden and anguished over by myself. December 2009, we found out I was pregnant. I was elated but so very doubtful and cautious to get my hopes up. Three previous miscarriages didn't lend much hope yet there was a teensy weensy bit of hope. I went to those first appointments and witnessed a good, strong heartbeat. And instantly names spun through my head. Baby clothes danced across my mind. Bottle feeding. Diaper changing. Midnight feedings. Hungry infant cries. Milestones celebrations. It's instant. A mother can't help it. Hopes, dreams, visions whoosh in her mind like a hurricane. They had me on baby aspirin. They had me on progesterone. They were going to make this happen, and I was beginning to believe it and allowing myself to sit back and enjoy the joys of growing a baby inside my tiny, little body.
February 16, 2010. I went to my appointment, every hope bright and radiating through my body. We were doing an ultrasound. I was going to see my little angel again. I laid back on the table, smiling. Ready and eager to see my baby on that screen. And I saw it. I was happy for one moment and in the next moment I was panicking. The doctor wasn't saying anything. I heard the click-click of his mouse a dozen times. As he measured, readjusted, looked again. A look spread across his face as he recognized something I was not. And then I saw it, too. No heartbeat. Nothing at all.... I remember just clicking off. Turned off my emotions and just became numb. The doctor was saying a lot of things, sighing, rubbing his chin. Frowning. Looking helpless. I shook my head and just said okay a dozen times.
"Can I just get one last picture...." I murmured. And I knew he was choking down words and emotions as he nodded his head. He gave me the picture. I took it, gazed at it, and then put it in my purse. I was alone. So very alone and still I didn't allow myself to cry while I dressed. Gradually I felt an urgency to just leave the place. But I walked to my doctor's office as directed and sat in a chair, waiting. He asked if I wanted to do another D&C and I just chuckled. "No, " was my flat, unemotional answer. He nodded.
"We'll see what happens in two weeks..." I remember him clearing his throat a lot. He asked if I wanted to pray with him. I allowed the gesture. He knew I was Mormon. I knew he was Baptist. His words fell heavily on my heart but I appreciated his sincerity.
"We can try again...." he said as I was standing. I looked back at him, suddenly feeling terribly and utterly wasted. I was alone. No one was with me and I just wanted to leave. Go to a dark place and tear apart my body. My useless, unforgiving body.
"No..." another flat-voiced, answer. This was it. I couldn't do this anymore. And I left. I fled actually. And I waited one week. I don't know how I functioned. I just did. Fed my son. Cleaned the house. Moved furniture. Folded laundry. Went to the park. Just going through the motion of every day things, waiting. I didn't cry once. Just waited. Didn't talk about it much. These waiting games carry abundant torture as it is...why talk about it?
February 23, 2010. It happened. I remember the cramps. I remember the shock even though I knew it was coming. I was in the bathroom. Lil man was napping. It was then that the tears flowed. It was then that the anguish ripped me apart inside. And I felt great depths of anger and utter despair. And I remember howling. Moaning in sorrow as I cried aloud to God. I held her in my hands. I decided it was a her. My body shook and shuddered with every broken emotion I felt that day. And I remember thinking this was absolutely all my fault. I apologized to her. I told her I was sorry I wasn't good enough. I spent an hour with her, despairing. And then vowing never again. I could never do this again to anyone else. Never, baby girl. Never again.
"My baby....my baby....oh my sweet, sweet baby.." I kept repeating over and over until I just couldn't stand the pain of what I was facing right then and there.
Then I stood and cleaned everything up robotically, placing her in a tiny shoe box. I buried her. And only I know the exact spot she rests. I told everyone when it happened. But I never told anyone the depth of all that happened that day. But I cried almost every night and I sank further and further into a deep, inconsolable depression. I did what I had to every day; slapped on a fake smile. Got my chores done. But I started eating and eating and eating. And drinking and drinking and drinking. And no one really knew.
February 16, 2010. I went to my appointment, every hope bright and radiating through my body. We were doing an ultrasound. I was going to see my little angel again. I laid back on the table, smiling. Ready and eager to see my baby on that screen. And I saw it. I was happy for one moment and in the next moment I was panicking. The doctor wasn't saying anything. I heard the click-click of his mouse a dozen times. As he measured, readjusted, looked again. A look spread across his face as he recognized something I was not. And then I saw it, too. No heartbeat. Nothing at all.... I remember just clicking off. Turned off my emotions and just became numb. The doctor was saying a lot of things, sighing, rubbing his chin. Frowning. Looking helpless. I shook my head and just said okay a dozen times.
"Can I just get one last picture...." I murmured. And I knew he was choking down words and emotions as he nodded his head. He gave me the picture. I took it, gazed at it, and then put it in my purse. I was alone. So very alone and still I didn't allow myself to cry while I dressed. Gradually I felt an urgency to just leave the place. But I walked to my doctor's office as directed and sat in a chair, waiting. He asked if I wanted to do another D&C and I just chuckled. "No, " was my flat, unemotional answer. He nodded.
"We'll see what happens in two weeks..." I remember him clearing his throat a lot. He asked if I wanted to pray with him. I allowed the gesture. He knew I was Mormon. I knew he was Baptist. His words fell heavily on my heart but I appreciated his sincerity.
"We can try again...." he said as I was standing. I looked back at him, suddenly feeling terribly and utterly wasted. I was alone. No one was with me and I just wanted to leave. Go to a dark place and tear apart my body. My useless, unforgiving body.
"No..." another flat-voiced, answer. This was it. I couldn't do this anymore. And I left. I fled actually. And I waited one week. I don't know how I functioned. I just did. Fed my son. Cleaned the house. Moved furniture. Folded laundry. Went to the park. Just going through the motion of every day things, waiting. I didn't cry once. Just waited. Didn't talk about it much. These waiting games carry abundant torture as it is...why talk about it?
February 23, 2010. It happened. I remember the cramps. I remember the shock even though I knew it was coming. I was in the bathroom. Lil man was napping. It was then that the tears flowed. It was then that the anguish ripped me apart inside. And I felt great depths of anger and utter despair. And I remember howling. Moaning in sorrow as I cried aloud to God. I held her in my hands. I decided it was a her. My body shook and shuddered with every broken emotion I felt that day. And I remember thinking this was absolutely all my fault. I apologized to her. I told her I was sorry I wasn't good enough. I spent an hour with her, despairing. And then vowing never again. I could never do this again to anyone else. Never, baby girl. Never again.
"My baby....my baby....oh my sweet, sweet baby.." I kept repeating over and over until I just couldn't stand the pain of what I was facing right then and there.
Then I stood and cleaned everything up robotically, placing her in a tiny shoe box. I buried her. And only I know the exact spot she rests. I told everyone when it happened. But I never told anyone the depth of all that happened that day. But I cried almost every night and I sank further and further into a deep, inconsolable depression. I did what I had to every day; slapped on a fake smile. Got my chores done. But I started eating and eating and eating. And drinking and drinking and drinking. And no one really knew.
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