“How many pregnancies have you had?” asked the ultrasound technician, as she guided the transvaginal wand and clicked away. I couldn’t see the screen.
“Including this one? Eight. But I miscarried one of those babies a year and a half ago, and one pregnancy was twins, ” I offered, wanting to see this baby on the hidden screen, but not daring to ask.
“Hmm…do you have an appointment with your doctor today?”
“No, my doctor only needed a lab to verify progesterone levels and an ultrasound to verify a heartbeat.” My heart raced. A heartbeat. Is there a heartbeat? There should be at 8 weeks. But I couldn’t ask.
The tech finished up and said, “Go ahead and get dressed. I’ll set that appointment up for you right now. I’ll be right back.”
The door shut. I changed and sat still. Either this was bad news, that I must see my doctor, or it was wildly good news. Perhaps the tech found twins, and she wasn’t able to say so? But if that was the case, surely she would have shown me the screen. No, this was bad news.
I was then directed to another room. My doctor came in and quietly sat down and said, “I’m afraid the ultrasound indicates that your baby died. I’m awfully sorry.”
I nodded, feeling suddenly hot.
She continued, “You may quit taking the progesterone now. You’ll likely start bleeding and cramping in a few days, or maybe not for a few weeks. This is sometimes called a Missed Miscarriage…”
She went on, but I couldn’t register it. A silent sob choked in my throat. It’s happening again? Oh, my dear baby. I am so sorry.
I blinked back my tears and forced myself to listen, as my doctor kindly went on with other instructions.
And then, numb and dazed, I walked out to my van and sat down. I thought of everything I still had to do that afternoon. Drive home. Switch out the laundry. Make supper. Help the children with their homework. Fold laundry. Eat dinner…
And my little one died. Oh, Jesus! Not again. How can I do this a second time? And a flood of tears overtook me as I sobbed and sobbed. But I submit myself to your holy will, O Lord. Only hold me and my little one, for I cannot do this without You.
And what could I do? After a time, I had to pull myself together and drive home.
That was Monday.
Now it’s been a few days, and I still haven’t miscarried the baby’s tiny body yet, for my body still thinks it’s pregnant, as I continue to be exhausted and nauseous. These days have been full of a Silent Agony, as I wait for my body to figure it out and for the baby to completely pass away from me.
And then, we must somehow tell the children–the children who speak of nothing but the tiny baby growing in mommy’s tummy and all the wonderful plans they have for him.
Plans that will never happen.
I am sick, as I hold this silent sorrow in my heart and in my womb. And I wait. Wait.