It's been so long since I've sat in front of this computer to write a blog about anything, much less what I'm fixing to write about. But I have a feeling that getting some of my thoughts out will help me heal; so we will see.
On July 4, 2013 we found out we were expecting, a new bundle of a joy, our own little firecracker surprise. It's an amazing feeling as most of you know to find out your carrying a life, a tiny human being, that feeling is indescribable. There are simply no words to describe the joy, love, and pure happiness that you feel in the very moment. It's amazing, because almost as soon as you see that positive line on a pregnancy test (or five if you are like me and cannot believe the first results) how quick your body starts to feel pregnant. All the signs, symptoms of carrying such a wonderful thing. The nausea, sore boobs, the tightness in your belly that can only result from a baby, the cravings, the mood swings, the emotional roller coaster of it all. Even through all that, it's still amazing, because you know that the end result is absolutely priceless. A love like no other develops when you are carrying a child and once that child is born it's like watching your heart or hearts for multiple children walking around outside your body. It's unbelievable the love you can feel just by watching your child play, eat, sleep. Oh how they sleep, so peacefully. But as many have also experienced, there can come that one day that NO parent should ever have to go through. The simple words, yet so utterly complex, "There is no fetal heartbeat." In that moment you can feel an abundance of emotions. I felt suffocated. I felt like a piece of me was being ripped away, right then in that moment, gone.
On August 15, 2013, I went in for what was supposed to be a regular OB appointment (my first, since the doctor's office is so busy) and it turned into a nightmare. An unending nightmare. One that you cannot wake up from. As everyone congratulated me, blood pressure was checked, the normal routine of visiting the OB everything was wonderful and going as planned. The doctor came into the exam room with the doppler (as from my experience most do at nearly every OB appt.) and we talked a few minutes and then she tried to hear a heartbeat. No luck. So she thought it may be too early to hear it that way and brought the ultrasound machine in to see if she could see it that way. After a few moments of silence and I knew by looking at her face that something was wrong, she uttered the words "I see something right here, it could be really really early for you, or it could be an undeveloped pregnancy." The words NO one wants to hear. After telling me to go to the lab for bloodwork, scheduling me for an ultrasound by the technician the next day, and a follow-up appointment for 5 days later I was on my way. In shock. The next few hours were a blur as I tried to not cry, tried to keep the hope that it was a simple mistake, and then nightfall came. With that much on your mind, it's impossible to sleep. The night crept by to early morning hours, then finally daylight came and it was time to get ready for what could be the best appointment or the worst.
August 16, 2013; Sitting in the waiting room with women waiting to find out the gender of their baby while I waited to find out if mine was even alive was harsh, to say the least. Everyone so happy, peppy, and excited to see/hear their baby and get on with their weekends. It seemed like an eternity later (15 minutes of waiting) we were finally called back to that dark ultrasound room. We waited some more as she moved the wand around to get the best pictures, views, and studied the screen. Finally she said that she was going to take just a few more pictures and then she would tell us what she saw. That seemed like forever. All I wanted to hear was that everything was okay, that does not even come close...."I can see a sac right here and right here is where I should see a flicker for the heartbeat, but I don't. I'm sorry, but there is no heartbeat." I turned away to stare at the shaded window and began to cry. And cry. And cry. The ultrasound technician handed me a box of tissue and left the room to give us a few minutes. My boys sat there not really understanding what was going on, my husband in just as much shock as me. After about five minutes she came back into the room, told me what to expect and when I should go to the ER, and sent us on our way. Walking back out into the waiting room still full of happy, pregnant women we left and made our way home.
It seemed the weekend was the longest I've ever experienced, I longed for the questions in my mind to be answered. Knowing that an abundance of them could and never will be answered. I longed for clarification, confirmation, and a discussion with my doctor. August 20, could not get here quick enough. Three and a half days of little sleep, plenty of time to google things, and just silently grieve. Having two other children that needed me, my husband, things had/have to be as normal as possible. Tuesday finally arrived and we made our way back into that waiting room full of pregnant women, thankfully my doctor had noted for me to be placed in an exam room as soon as I arrived so we didn't have to sit in the waiting room long. That is by far the longest, hardest, doctor's visit I've ever had to endure. Lots of prepared explaining on her part, questions on our part, which led to more questions and more responses. We left feeling more at ease that there was nothing we did or could have done, it just simply wasn't meant to be. That does help me, whereas it may not help others, I'm okay with that response (today). Tomorrow is a different story though. So now we wait and continue weekly appointments. It's hard, still knowing that I'm carrying this baby around, but he/she is no longer mine, but in the hands of God. An angel. My angel baby. Our angel baby.
"When death comes, especially the death of a child, it is never, ever the right time. That special part of you is taken away so quickly. And, no, it never seems fair. Life goes on for all of those around us, but for those who have lost a child, time just stands still. Time no longer has meaning."
-Taken from Silent Grief by Clara Hinton
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