Dear Nora,
Today was not a good day, there really isn’t a better way to put it. Well, there are better ways, but they use some pretty foul language. It was unpleasant walking back into that hospital. Taking the same route I did each visit before your birth. I felt like I could see us, a different version of us. There we were, stepping off the elevator with heavy feet and heavier hearts, puffy eyed and carrying an empty car seat. I could still see the woman we had to pass on the way out. There she was, on her phone, mindlessly rocking her newborn’s car seat with her foot while she waited for something or someone. I remembered being angry with her, how could she not be looking at that beautiful, pink, living baby she had? I passed that empty version of us in the hallway and my stomach knotted.
I’d been worried and nervous leading up to our confirmation of pregnancy appointment. I kept flashing back to recording your heartbeat for your dad and feeling so blissful. I kept remembering how oblivious and naive I had been. I kept thinking about how that bliss turned into a beautiful love that lead to crushing heartbreak. I was worried it would happen again. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to fully breathe until we saw all four chambers, perfectly formed and functioning. Half breathing for five months seemed like a small price to pay for a beautiful sight like that.
I’d begun to let myself picture it. I pictured how we’d tell our families and how they’d celebrate (and probably cry) with us. I assumed the baby was a girl given our track record and began to dream up names. That was difficult; we’ve already used our favorite three. I started to look at things to replace those we’d sold or given away because the sight of them without you was too painful. I dreamt of your sisters putting their little hands on a big baby bump to feel kicks and hiccups again. I thought about curling up with them and a cup of hot tea reading books while it rained outside. I let myself dream and picture it all. There we were in one of the same typically decorated hospital rooms we’d been in just six months before with you. I was wearing one of those green gowns patterned with bluish lines and little colored geometric shapes over a swollen belly. You know the ones, a million untrustworthy snaps and two usually broken ties are the only things that would be keeping it on. One of those patterned curtains that always looks like they came straight out of the 80’s hung in front of the door on little chains to protect what little privacy I had as a laboring woman. I was holding your dad’s hand and the doctor that delivered you was there, gowned up and ready to go. I imagined how it would feel to hear the sweet sound of your sibling’s first cry and hold a baby that wiggled and looked around a bit. I imagined I’d cry so many tears of joy, relief and even grief. I imagined the little toes and the sweet baby smell. I dreamt about yet another moment we never got with you, one that still breaks my heart. I dreamt about your sisters meeting the baby, holding the baby and showering it with love and kisses. It was all so beautiful, so hopeful.
Today would’ve been the first step, almost ten weeks down (halfway!) until I could take a good deep breath again. Such a bittersweet thing becoming pregnant again after losing you. While no baby could ever replace you, I saw a flicker of the hope and healing one could bring. Until she put the ultrasound on my abdomen and there was no flicker. I knew something was off right away, it just didn’t look right. She mentioned measuring the yolk sac and I thought, “it shouldn’t still be that big this far along. Stop moving and let’s look at the baby.” Then came the internal ultrasound which confirmed what I suspected. She tried to zip by, there were other measurements needed and why prolong our agony. I didn’t care about the other measurements and said what I’d been fearing out loud, “no little heartbeat then is there?” A short impregnated silence and “no, no I don’t think I see one. I’m sorry.” Then came the tears, sobs really. She handed me washcloths and went to make sure the doctor could see us sooner rather than later. We took the behind the scenes walk of shame to another room where we waited to discuss the next steps. It’s better that way, not going out to the waiting room. It’s better for us and it’s better for them, the lucky ones, the happy ones. It’s too disconcerting for them to see the ones like us.
We held hands and cried while we waited. No baby was going to make our losing you better nor less torturous, but man did this feel like yet another level of hell. We had the requisite three options- wait and see then come back if nothing continues to happen, take the medication to induce the physical loss or go in for a D and C. The medication seemed like the lesser of the three evils and we decided the 80-90% success rate was worth a shot. I mean, we’ve hit the world’s worst lottery with odds much lower than that. So, there we were, taking the same path out of the hospital feeling empty and broken yet again. I’d just begun to tell myself that we couldn’t let this new baby live in the shadow of loss. I started thinking waiting to talk about it was unfair, the baby deserved to be celebrated even while we still held our breath.
Now I’m at home, snuggled with the blanket you were wrapped in, listening to the pouring rain and waiting for the first physical signs of our magnanimous loss. At this point the loss is really beginning to compound and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t hard and awful and downright unfair. I want to do something and I don’t want to do anything all at once. I find myself filled with this feeling I had after we lost you, this feeling to run out into the ocean and let the frigid water swallow me for just a moment. Maybe I’d feel closer to you too, I don’t know. I was cautiously optimistic when I told you you were going to be a big sister. I suppose you’ve been together for some time now and that’s a lovely thought. My three little angels, together somewhere at peace. I think of you constantly and miss you with my every breath.
It was all such a beautiful, hopeful picture. Yet with one very still picture on a screen, it was all gone. I’d let that sweet baby in behind some carefully built walls and they crumbled from the inside much easier than I’d hoped. The things that happened after were much different than I’d begun to let myself imagine. They were much more clinical and much much more painful. I’ll never know why or how, but I hope someday the pain and the suffering that has come along with all of this makes sense. I already know at it’s core it’s really just love, but that alone doesn’t make it any easier. Honestly I don’t think anything has ever made it easier, but time has made it lighter in a way and I suppose now that clock begins again. Im sad this letter ends with another wave returning to the ocean.
Love, Mommy
Originally written to Nora September 17, 2021
Dear Nora 