Dear Baby Not to Be

[This was written in mid-December, about two weeks after the D&C]

I honestly don’t know where to start. I have been thinking about writing for two weeks, and all of the thoughts are circling in my head so fast that it makes me dizzy. But where do I begin?

Dear baby not be,
I would have really liked to have known you and have you be part of our family. I don’t think I can ever get over the loss of you, but I do know (or hope) that it will get better and that I won’t come undone every time I think about how much I miss you. My thoughts and feelings run the gamut. Sometimes I am raging mad, wanting to shake my fists at the sky and demand the answer of why this is so unfair. We wanted you so badly, we waited for you so long, we would have given you a nice home and millions of kisses and overwhelming love. How can you love and miss so much someone you have never met—nor will ever meet? Sometimes I am mad in a different way—the screw you way, the way that makes me want to drink to oblivion, smoke cigarettes, eat raw fish—a revengeful kind of mad. Sometimes I refuse to believe it. I feel a rumble in my stomach and wonder if it’s you moving around. I put my hand on my belly and hope that you can feel my touch. These moments are not long-lasting, but they are short glimmers of hope that I know can not come true. Sometimes I am numb. I think about you and almost didn’t feel anything. “Oh well, this is life.” And then immediately I feel so guilty—that I should be missing you more and grieve more. But most of the times, I have this overwhelming sadness, this grief that chills me, makes me sick to my stomach.

You were just too good to be true. After a year of charting, trying, crying, hurting, diagnosing, agonizing, I saw a plus sign on the HPT. How could it be? October was a crazy month, so full of travel that we literally had one chance, one shot of having you—the night Daddy came back from a trip and I left for my trip the next morning. He was on travel again when I peed in the stick and was so dumbfounded with the result. How could it be? I spent the entire afternoon looking for creative ways to tell Daddy about you. I didn’t even call the doctor. I was obsessed with finding the right way to tell him, something better than spurting out “I think I am pregnant” while he was making himself a PBJ sandwich, as I did when I found out your brother was coming. I ended up putting the HPT in a baby bottle, writing a note on it: “See you in July” and wrapping it in a box, pretending it was a late birthday gift. He could not believe it. It was nearly impossible to be true. And it was.

After the first week or two, I knew something didn’t feel right. I wasn’t very sick. I wasn’t very tired. I did not have much of an appetite. Later on, shortly after we found out that you were gone, Daddy said something about mother’s intuition. I somehow knew all along that this was not meant to be. But I dismissed it—and everyone else I told this to dismissed it. It was jitters. It was the worry because of M’s and SD’s and ST’s and J’s experience. But it was not going to happen to me. I should not complain, I said to myself. I should be lucky that I don’t feel sick. Every pregnancy is different. I should not compare.

Early on, I told my friend S that I was worried about this. And she said that all of us are allowed only one heartache with babies in utero. For them, it was preterm labor. For us, it was the infertility leading up to this pregnancy. I have fulfilled my heartache, I have passed the challenge—so I was in the clear. I liked her logic.

And then I started feeling a bit sicker. Every time I would eat, I would feel nauseous. I hated it, but I also loved it. I commented how strange it was that with your brother, I would get sick when I was hungry, and with you, I got sick when I ate. I still don’t know where the nausea was coming from. You were already gone at that point…

Then there was spotting. Just a little bit. No cramps. I already had an appointment with a midwife later in the day, so I didn’t bother calling. I was doing a co-op at your brother's school. The teacher asked me if I had only one child, and I said yes. “And another one on the way,” I thought to myself. And a new thought immediately entered my mind. Maybe I am having a miscarriage right now. I brushed it off. Stop being so worried.

Midwife did an internal check and said, yes, there is bleeding. She even showed us the giant q-tips with blood and said my cervix looked swollen, and that’s where the blood was coming from—but that was because of all of the hormones. She said we should get a sonogram to put our fears to rest. “So you think there is a 50/50 chance that things are not OK?” I asked. She said, “I would not even come close to that line to suggest that something is wrong.” I felt like a million bucks.

I was nervous waiting at the OB office, but once we got to the ultrasound place, my mind felt at ease. I told myself that I was prepared for the worst, but I was not. I felt positive. I was excited for Husband to see that little heartbeat. How cool that we get an ultrasound so early again!

We waited for over an hour. We were the last patient of the day. I didn’t see you right away, but I saw you within the first minute. There you were. Looking bigger that I remember your brother being, although it was roughly the same time. But there was no flashing dot. I kept looking for it. I remember seeing that flashing dot so clearly with your brother—not knowing what it was at first, but when I was told, I burst into tears. That was my baby’s heartbeat—I could not imagine being more excited then. But there was no flashing dot this time. The sonogram technician kept moving the instrument around, trying different angles. And then I knew. That’s when I knew. I wanted to say it, but I didn’t want to be the nay-sayer. Maybe she will find it. It seemed that an eternity went by. “I am so sorry. But I can’t find a heartbeat,” she finally said. I heard your Daddy gasp. He hasn’t seen this before, he thought she was looking at my cervix, trying to figure out why it was swollen. He did not know this was the baby on the screen. I remember covering my eyes and crying. I did not want to look at the screen anymore. I could not stand to see it. Now, looking back, I wish that maybe I should have. Just to have the last peek at my baby. The baby I will never see again. I wish I would have asked for a picture. Something to hold on to. Something to remember you by. But maybe that would be too painful.

She asked for a couple more minutes to take some measurements. She said you measured at about 7 weeks, even though you were 9. When she was done, she called the nurse at the doctor’s office. A cold, compassionless person who scheduled my appointment for the next day to “discuss options” and told me to go to the ER if I were to have heavy bleeding tonight. Oddly, I had no bleeding after that. Not that night. Not the entire next day. Not the morning of the D&C. They asked me at the hospital if I needed a pad and disposable panties. I didn’t. There was not a drop of blood. You weren’t ready to get out.