The baby has no heartbeat.
I wasn’t prepared to hear those words. Just 30 minutes before, I had hopped into my car and was thinking to myself just how much I was nailing life right now. I was hitting all sorts of deadlines at my new job, I was on time to all my appointments and meetings that day, the weather was beautiful and warm, Elliott didn’t whimper like a sad little puppy when I dropped him off at daycare that morning, and I was going on vacation next week. Just a quick check in with the doctor to see how the little jelly bean was progressing. My mind couldn’t have been further from the heart wrenching truth that was about to be thrown in my lap. “The baby has no heartbeat,” she said. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”
It’s not your fault.
As I lay there, the ultrasound technician stroking my arm, I tried not to hyperventilate. I tried not to cry. I tried to turn everything off. But there are some things that you can’t shut out no matter how much you want to. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “It was likely just a chromosomal abnormality. It happens more often than you think.” Underneath the shock, I knew it wasn’t my fault. Genetics are complicated and the fact that we can create life at all is a miracle. But, guess what? Lying there on that table, covered in ultrasound gel and tears, logic seemed like a luxury. It felt like it was my fucking fault. Was it that soft cheese I ate? Did I work out too hard? Not enough? Maybe the Tylenol I took for a headache? Those drinks I had before I knew I was pregnant? The fact that I forgot my vitamins almost every day? Of course it wasn’t. But try convincing a mom, whose sole purpose in regards to her children is to love and protect them, that she didn’t fail the dead baby she’s carrying inside her.
We’ll let you know what your options are.
Options? What do you mean options? I thought the only option I had was to cry and mourn the loss of my unborn child—the sibling we so desperately wanted for E, the little girl I was convinced I was carrying. But it turns out my body was holding on as tightly as my mind was to this baby, and I had to decide which option to choose to “help the process along.” A surgery—effective, detached, but requires full anesthesia. A medication—could be done sooner, could be done at home, could mean that I see and feel things I may not wish to. I chose medication. The pain of knowing my baby had no heartbeat could only be matched by the pain of knowing this wasn’t over yet. I didn’t want to wait for surgery. I wanted to finish this right now.
It took me a few days to build up the courage to go by the doctor’s office and pick up the pills. When I finally stopped by, they pulled a brown paper sack out from under their desk with my name pen scratched and misspelled on the outside. It seemed insensitive, but really I don’t know how you could package such a hard, cold dose of finality in a way that would seem right. Bows and ribbons? Hell no. I guess that paper sack made about as much sense as anything else did at the moment. I drove home, read the instructions, said goodbye to the future I had been building in my mind for the last 12 weeks, and took the pills.
It didn’t happen right away. Just like full term labor, you wait. You cramp. You try to sleep. Then, when your body decides everything is ready, it happens. I won’t share details, but in many ways it’s like giving birth to a live baby. Minus every ounce of joy. It’s just blood and pain.
On February 13 at 2:30 a.m., from my cold, hard bathroom floor, I said goodbye one last time to my little girl. The little girl I had created a future for in my mind—that was going to be two years and two months younger than E. She was going to look like mommy, but be head over heels for daddy. She was going to fight, play with, and fiercely love her big brother, who would do all of those things right back. She was going to exist joyfully, but with just enough pain to show her what truly matters. Most importantly she was going to live.
I’m still trying to sort out what something like this is supposed to mean. What lessons it’s supposed to impart. I assume that one day it will teach me to be thankful for what I have or to appreciate things more. But right now, all it feels like is sadness and anger. I’ll work to heal, because in the new dream I’m building, we try again. And I want this new dream to come from a place of happiness, not fear and pain. But most importantly, I have to get it together for my beautiful baby boy who needs his mother whole and intact, not fragile and teary eyed every time she sees another woman attempting to juggle a toddler with a swollen, pregnant belly.
Until then, I’ll remember the first 10 weeks of my pregnancy, where I felt like I was on the verge of throwing up every moment of the day, with a mixture of fondness and disgust. I’ll hold on to that one ultrasound photo I have of my baby, when her heart was still beating. And as I bury the future I planned with one child, I’ll work to create a new future for another. And one day, hopefully, I’ll be able to say thank you.
Just not today.