We got into the examining room to see the doc and she said we should be able to hear the heartbeat with a monitor…No sound but “that’s not unusual at this stage so let’s try the ultrasound.” The doctor started the ultrasound with the monitor facing us, so we could see it too. As she kept searching she moved the monitor towards her for a better look and her face changed from concentration to concern - she looked at the screen intently for a few more seconds, blinked, moved her hands from the console, looked right at B and said, “there’s no heartbeat.”
What? Wait. What?
The doctor told us to take all the time we needed and dismissed herself politely.
We were frozen. My mind rushed for the right thing to do or say but all I knew to do was to hold B and kiss her forehead, and say “I’m so sorry.”
After several long minutes we began to talk. We took turns sharing the anguish and shock. Then we began to figure out how to navigate telling the boys, family, and friends. There was a lot of shared excitement and anticipation about this great expectation and there would now be shared sadness and disappointment. After several days we had all the conversations made all the calls and even let our facebook friends know.
No one ever tells you how difficult a loss like this is. And it turns out a LOT of people have been through it. Many people shared their experiences with us – people we had no idea had been through this… it’s not something that people share in casual conversation.
It’s been a few weeks now and the cadence of life is back to normal but every baby we see or any object that hints at “baby” sends a sting and a shiver. My work puts me right in the middle of families with babies and it's just all too close for me to smile and marvel at…it’s like the baby-loving, mushy part of my heart is dead tissue for the moment. What makes all this even harder is knowing that B’s struggle is exponentially more difficult and complex and cellular - it's painful to know that I can’t come close to understanding or feeling the grief she carries or being able to lighten any of it for her.
So…in the struggle to move on; to revive that part of my heart and smile and audible “awwww – may I hold her”; I have to accept that this loss is a big one. And this loss deserves to be a part of my personal and family history and if you’re a friend this is now part of your history.
Skip this part if you don’t want to hear a rant….
Although everyone has done their best to be kind and understanding – I’d like to hand out a little advice of what NOT to do when someone tells you they have had a miscarriage/lost a pregnancy, or had any kind of loss…
DO NOT say “It must be for the best.” And then go on to give reasons for "it being for the best” like, “maybe there would have been a defect,” or “God’s plan is better than our plan,” or “who knows what might have happened at your age”….these things are NOT helpful. To any of you who say “for the best” to someone who has gone through some kind of tragedy…it is never your fucking business to make that call for someone else! Got it! “for the best”…my ass.
Ok…continue reading here if you’re a rant-skipper…
What I hope is that I can take away a deep understanding that there is “invisible” pain and loss everywhere and I want the ability to be present when someone shares sadness that I can’t yet relate to or understand. I will work to follow the examples of those who did do a good job caring for us through the worst part of the sadness; those who were wonderfully, completely present and mostly silent. They helped us cry and shared in our sadness. They did not try to fix anything or make clever claims. When they did speak they asked questions like, “Can I hold your hand or make you a cup of tea or both?” But mostly there was time shared and silence.
