On loss — the kind we don’t like to talk about.
Tags: Baby, Loss, Grief, Miscarriage, Pregnancy Loss

Things I will never forget. The date — 3/17. That godforsaken coral bathroom. Lighthouses and sea shells and pink everywhere. The red blood. Not pink. No, the pink was reserved for the bathroom. Not dark. Bright red. That falling feeling. No. No. No. Please no. Sobbing hysterically in the bathroom. Then trying to compose myself. I knew at that moment that it was gone. Mother’s intuition. All of the little things. Not getting bigger, not feeling movement. It was always a few days behind. The call to Austin. He didn’t pick up so I had to call his mom to get a hold of him. My voice didn’t waver with her but when he got on the phone, I was sobbing for him to come home. It must have been a terrifying call to get. Mom calling. Then my sister calling. Then Mom calling again. Me just sobbing through these calls.

The stupid fucking doctor who said to me “it’s very likely that everything is fine”. The ultrasound technician with the face like a stone. That ultrasound. The baby not moving. No dancing. No punching. No heartbeat, no anything. “I’m so sorry” she said “there is no heartbeat”. Austin held my hand and was crying but I don’t think I shed a tear. My whole body felt cold. Then hot. So hot. The feeling when you burn yourself. I knew it. She offers a picture of the ultrasound. No thank you. I do not want a picture of my dead child. The stupid fucking doctor who came back and said “I hope I didn’t give you any false hope.” Fuck that guy.

Calling mom. Calling Alina. Calling friends. Calling the OB. Making it real. Every phone call with cracked voices and tears. “I’m so sorry.” I have never hated those words more.

That blue vaccum. It looked like a Rug Doctor and and a grey tube. The OR. It was sterile and empty. Last time I was in one, it was for birth not death. The drugs. Feeling so alone. I wished so much that someone was with me. To hold my hand or something. Waking up to the face of the doctor. I felt fine. Completely fine. Nothing hurt, nothing ached. Just like that. No baby. Empty womb. Reset. Every hope, every dream, every idea of what the future was evaporated in an instant.

Austin came to the room. I don’t think I cried. Not that night. Complete and utter shock. I mean of course it happens, but it wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I wasn’t supposed to be a statistic.

The aftermath — Dubuque (3/17–3/20)

The grief is visceral and all encompassing and it doesn’t go away. I’ve never had to deal with loss. Down to the bottom of my soul it hurts. The first three days it takes every ounce of energy to not be crying. Every day for a few hours, I hole myself up in that blue room with the little bed and sob. I sob for myself. I sob for my little bean. I sob for Owen, who wasn’t going to be a big brother anymore. I sob for Austin. I sob for my little bean. I don’t want another baby. I want that baby back. Please. The stages of grief aren’t linear. It happens whenever and wherever. Everywhere I go, there is a weight in my chest like I can’t breathe. I try to cry it all out. It doesn’t make it any better.

I try to find humor in it. If you don’t laugh you cry, and I’ve cried so much and it hasn’t helped. Grandma Betty asking over and over and over, what did they do with the baby. They vacuumed it out Grandma. She looks horrified. But then 10 minutes later, what did they do with the baby. They vacuumed it out Grandma. What else could you say.

Facebook and Instagram are unbearable. Ads and announcements. Glowing bellies and wide smiles. So many September babies. So many August babies. I deactivate everything. I can’t handle it. Every post is like a punch to the stomach. I never understood trigger warnings. I get them now. A friend sent some links for baby shower invites. I cried for hours after, loud guttural sobs that reverberated through my body. We aren’t going to have little babies that grew up together. She would have one. Not me. Not her fault, my fault. My stupid womb unable to hold a precious baby.

I can’t wait to get out of Dubuque. The dark blue room. The pink bathroom. They are oppressive. They crush me. Austin seems fine. I resent him for it. I want to scream at him? How can he be okay? How can he smile and make jokes? How can he still want to eat food? Did he not love it? I know he did. I know he did. But why am I the only one that can’t breath. Why am I the only one sitting in a room day after day rolled up in a ball crying. Why is everyone telling me it’s okay. Mom tells me to stop crying. Dad avoids the subject. My sister doesn’t know what to say.

I can’t wait to get out of Dubuque.

The aftermath — San Antonio (3/20–3/24)

My family is great at avoiding. I make jokes about my loss. I get by a whole day without crying. Only one though. There are moments that feel like it’s happened all over again. A family friend due in August too. She has a full belly and she glows. I didn’t even have a bump. I cry. Alina talks about her wedding. I think of the three month old I should have had by that time. I cry. I sit on the couch and look at the window. I cry. Sometimes I cry and I don’t know why. The grief is like a well that I never quite accurately guess the depth of. When I think I’ve reached the bottom, I find it goes a bit more.

Austin is fine. It seems like it’s only me. The only one that isn’t coping. Maybe that’s why it’s gone. No one wanted it as much as I did.

The engagement and Owens first birthday are a good distraction. I keep so busy that I don’t have time to think. I don’t think about how it was going to be my announcement. It’s for the best because when I think, I don’t think good thoughts. Owen is my saving grace. He smiles and reaches for me all the time. He cuddles, kisses, smiles and laughs. Everyone loves him. He loves everyone. So many people don’t have even one. I have him. My solace.

The aftermath — Seattle (3/25 — forever)

When I think I’m better, I’m not. Texting mom and dad that I’ve boarded the plane when the last text was the ultrasound. Of the alive baby. Not the one that’s in some hazardous waste somewhere. I cry on the plane. We watch a show and someone is losing a baby. I cry. My work password is the baby’s nickname. I cry.

Being home has made it better and worse. Austin is sad. I think maybe he’s given himself time to grieve. I feel better because maybe it wasn’t just me. I don’t want to be at work. I don’t want to face people and pretend that nothing happened. I lost a child.

I’m slowly feeling better. Two days without crying. And then three. I try to face things that would hurt. I listened to Hey Jude. Didn’t cry. I talked about baby showers. Didn’t cry. I saw an ultrasound. Didn’t cry. I spoke to the doctor about the loss. Didn’t cry. I feel healthy. Not exhausted. I read. I write. I feel connected to Austin. I give Owen all my love. I play with Nora. I drink some beer and I try to move forward. There are hiccups, but yesterday I looked at the ultrasound of my little bean and felt love not despair. I try to think of nice things that I can do now. We are going to go to London. We’ll have a summer of drinking and hiking and exploring.

But then I go to a gender reveal. And then I go excuse myself to hide behind a trash can and cry as if it just happened. But then someone brings their fresh new baby to work. And I go cry in the work toilet as if it just happened. Family announces pregnancies. I cry as if just happened. I wish I could stop crying as if it just happened. I am never ready for that wallop of grief.

I want another one. And soon. But I’m so scared. So, so scared. I can’t go through this again. I want a live baby at the end of this. Please, please, let the next one live. Let it live and thrive. Please.