After all the treatments and pills and injections and debts,
I was pregnant.
All it took were two pink lines and our joy was complete. I
remember exactly the way my husband grinned at me when I rushed out of the
bathroom, waving a gross peed-on stick around in the air.
In the sky that night, we gazed up at the fireworks exploding
gloriously just as our own hearts were. We squeezed each other’s hand and knew
that by this time next year, our holidays would be filled with a wonderful
little addition to our married life. This was it. Our baby was here.
And then it was gone.
We’d always known it would be a high-risk pregnancy. The years
of fertility treatments, blood transfusions, and failed inseminations made sure
of that. So when our baby came, I transformed into the most delicate person in
the world. The masks, the home injections, the quarantine, the house arrest. I
was hospitalized twice in three weeks and couldn’t leave my room for days. All
of these to make sure our precious little miracle hung in there and made it out
safely.
But no amount of medical treatment could keep our baby alive,
and at just 8 weeks, that tiny heart stopped beating.
And then mine broke.
It was cozy in our doctor’s clinic. While everyone was staring
up at the game show flickering on TV, I was huddled in the corner with my
stupid face mask on and the blurred photo of our tiny one in my hand. Nobody
was looking at us, at my husband who was trying his best to be strong for me.
Nobody was looking at how I tried to muffle my sobs because this just wasn’t
the time and place. Nobody cared about the life we were losing.
Our baby was struggling inside me, her heart weak and frail
and beating at 50 beats per minute. “Too low,” the doctor said. Too low to
sustain the pregnancy, too weak to go on, too impossible to live.
When her heart rate dropped to zero, she was taken from me.
A lot of preparation, a lot of waiting, and a lot of blood. What
was once my baby was now called a “specimen”, and that was it. In my last
desperate act of clinging to my little one, I asked the nurse if they found
anything during the procedure. But they didn’t. Not a tiny speck, not a single
piece of evidence that my baby was once alive. Just bits of meat and blood,
blood, blood.
The moment I woke up from the anesthesia, there was a sound
in the other room, the beautiful cry of a newborn baby being delivered. And
there I was, having just had mine removed.
They told me it was normal. They told me that losing an
early baby was just like having your period. But when that baby has lived
inside me for eight weeks, how could I not love her so, so much? Towards the
end, all I could say to her was that it was okay. “It’s okay, sweetie, I’m
still here. Don’t be afraid; I’m not going anywhere.” And it was true. Even in
our baby’s final moments, I was still there. And that hole in my heart reserved
for her would remain empty forever.
There are no funerals for a miscarriage. There is no ceremony
to mourn the death of an unborn child, no eulogy for a dead baby, no socially
accepted outlet to grieve over this loss. And even though your body heals
itself in a few weeks, your heart just can’t recover the same way.
To you who have miscarried, I am sorry for your pain. I’m
sorry that the world tells you to be quiet about your agony, to suffer in
silence, to hide the baby you’ve lost. I’m sorry that not everyone understands
how losing a baby means losing a part of yourself, and that no matter how long
you tried to keep her alive—days, weeks, months—you will always carry that
death in your heart. I’m sorry if every baby shower, every children’s party,
every TV ad, and every pair of onesies on sale in the window reminds you of the
child you never got to raise.
But that is how a mother is. Horrific and scarring and
excruciating as the loss might have been, your child is your child, and no
miscarriage can make you any less of a Mom. Our baby may only have been with us
for a brief time, but for those magnificent two months, my husband and I became
the happiest parents in the world. And that’s something nobody can take away.
So to you who have ever had a miscarriage, I salute you.
You were willing to do whatever it took to keep your baby
healthy and well for as long as you possibly could.
You took that seed and nourished it, planned your baby’s
life ahead of you, and knew exactly what he or she might have grown up to be.
You carried her and took care of her, stayed up late on
troublesome nights to make sure she was okay.
You took her to doctor’s appointments to keep her healthy;
you played with her and read to her and sang her to sleep.
You were brave enough to stay with her throughout her whole
life, and even though you were scared, you were strong enough to hold on to her
and never let her go.
You touched her with a mother’s touch and loved her with a
mother’s love.
You are a Mom.
Here’s to you then, dear sister, and here’s to every
beautiful unborn baby in the world. You are our children, and we are your Mom.
And no matter what happens, sweet little one, you will never
be forgotten.
