A Hurt that Never Heals

After waiting an hour and a half in the packed waiting room, I was finally called back to have my ‘dating scan’; the fun ultrasound that will tell me when my baby is due. I already knew how far along I was. I always seem to know exactly when I get pregnant. I was 11 weeks already and so excited to be so close to the second trimester. We had already told our families and most of our close friends. After this ultrasound I was going to make a general announcement, ya know, because having a baby is super exciting and I couldn’t wait to share the news.

I was a little bit giddy with anticipation as the ultrasound tech put that cold goo and magic baby seeing wand on my belly and looked intently at the screen. I swear, I cry over all things baby when I'm pregnant. Seeing that tiny little human wiggling on the monitor chokes me up every single time. Hearing the heartbeat of a new creation always brings tears to my eyes. I love it!

“Can you get the doctor” he casually said to the other tech in the room. My heart skipped a beat. And in that moment I knew. I just knew.

He didn't say a word to me. Just waited quietly for the doctor to come in, all the while still staring at the screen. Still moving that wand around on my belly.

The doctor came in. She said “hi Sarah”, but I couldn’t say anything. I stared at her as she stared at the screen, hoping, aching for a facial reaction that would allow me to breathe again. Nothing.

The ultrasound tech was saying something. Numbers, I think. The doctor asked if I understood what he said. I shook my head no.

“The baby doesn’t have a heartbeat.”

And there it was. Another fear came true in that moment. Another baby gone. I sobbed right there on that stupidly uncomfortable exam table, with my shirt still up and that goo smeared on my belly. I tried hard to maintain composure, but the breaking of my own heart gave way to uncontrollable sobbing, and I wondered if I’d ever regain control of my tears again.

“You can come talk to me in my office”. And with that the doctor left the room. The lights came back on, the other tech wiped up my belly and helped me up off the table. I met with the doctor and heard all of the same things I had heard twice already; these things happen. Chromosomal abnormality. Nothing you did. It’s common, but having one doesn’t mean you’ll have another.

Yes, thank you doctor. I know. But somehow that’s just not true. I wanted to yell at her. Stop giving me the “it’s okay, you’ll go on to have a healthy pregnancy” spiel.  I’d heard it all before. This was the third time I had sat in a room like this and listened to a doctor tell me she’s sorry for my loss and I can try again if I want to.  This was the third time my joy was shattered by immense sorrow in one instant. This was the third time that I found myself unable to breathe, holding in the sobs that were sure to come again as soon as I was alone.  This was the third time I had to say goodbye before I ever even got to say hello.

I walked quickly to my van and just sat there and sobbed. I could hardly regain control. It hurt so bad. The pain was so intense I wondered if my heart would literally break apart.

Suddenly my phone was vibrating. Phil was texting me, asking me about my appointment and when I would be home. He was watching the trio. I had gone to the doctor alone because it somehow just made sense at the time. But now…now it seemed like a terrible idea. I had to tell him.

I called him and barely got out “the baby doesn’t have a heartbeat” before I started sobbing again.

As soon as I got home Phil wrapped his arms tightly around me. It was comforting in a weird sort of way knowing that I wasn’t suffering alone. He was in this with me. He hurt too. This was OUR baby. And then Jaelyn broke my moment of comfort by excitedly asking if I had a picture of the baby. If my heart wasn’t already shattered, it was in that moment. A simple question by an innocent girl, but it tore me to shreds.

This pregnancy was so different than my 2 previous losses. For one, I was 11 weeks (or should have been 11 weeks. The baby’s heart stopped beating at 10 weeks) along with this one and I really thought I was in the safe zone. My two previous miscarriages both happened at week 7. Both of them began with cramping and shortly after bleeding. There was no doubt what was happening.

This pregnancy was different. Around week 8 I started spotting. No cramps, no real bleeding. I had my first appointment on September 10^th (11 days before my dating scan) and the doctor did a quick ultrasound just to check viability after I told him I was nervous because I was spotting and I had two previous losses. We saw the baby moving. We saw the heartbeat. The doctor said everything was fine.  

Everything was not fine. Two days after my life-altering ultrasound, Phil and I went to the ER to be told we were miscarrying. Obviously we already knew what was happening, but it gave me peace of mind knowing that the ultrasound in the ER showed nothing in my womb, and it gave peace of mind knowing…and seeing…the baby pass out of me.

Sometimes in my grief I try to hold on to a false hope. The hope that the doctor was wrong, the hope that maybe there were two and one is still alive, the hope that maybe the baby’s heart just started beating again. These things went through my mind and I desperately want to hold on to them and believe that they are true. But it’s false. And it hurts more because I’m not able to grieve properly. I’m not able to say goodbye when I should.

But seeing with my own eyes that the baby was not in my womb…well it hurt like nothing else in the world! But it also gave me the peace of mind to be able to grieve and to be able to say goodbye to that precious little one.

After everything was said and done that night I just felt so empty. Like, a physical emptiness. It’s hard to explain. My womb just felt empty. It hurts so bad! After giving birth to a healthy baby, there is a joy and there is awe and there is accomplishment that comes with that empty womb feeling. Your body did it! You grew a human, you nourished and sheltered and cared for a little bitty person inside of your body, and then you pushed it out of your body and you delivered it safely into the world. That empty womb feeling is a joyous occasion. But this…this feeling is not right. It’s not okay. There was no accomplishment, no joy, no awe. It’s empty when it should be full. It’s still when it should be growing. It hurts for all the wrong reasons.

There isn’t one day that goes by that I don’t think about what could have been, who could have been. There isn’t one day that I don’t cry for the baby I never got a chance to hold. But the hope that I hold on to is that one day I WILL get to hold that baby (and the other two babies I lost way too soon). One day my heart will start to mend. One day it won’t hurt as badly. And I can say that because I have experienced it. I hold on to the hope that I have seen in my own life, the hope that I have experienced before. 

I still mourn the baby I lost on November 26, 2010 and I still mourn the baby I lost on November 3, 2012. And it still hurts. I don’t believe those hurts will ever heal. Not completely. It becomes more and more bearable until it reaches the point of becoming a familiar ache. But it’s not overpowering anymore. And brighter days did come. It took a long time, as it probably should. But it did come. And so I know that those brighter days will come again. But in the meantime, it hurts.

It’s a hurt that will never heal.