two parts, one week later

This morning, at 9:41, I walked into the 2nd floor maternal fetal medicine waiting room and checked in for an ultra sound appointment. After my midwife visit yesterday--I'm 9 weeks along, we'd decided to do an early ultra sound just to help with tracking and put my mind at ease after everything that happened with Peter this spring.

Anna was my happy (in the beginning, at least) little companion, and I'd just explained to her that we were going to see pictures of the teeny baby starting to grow in my belly. She told me it was a "sister baby", and watched wide eyed at the fuzzy black and white screen mounted high on the wall, then back to her mama laying flat on a table, not really sure what was going on.

Pictures were taken by one, then another, and then both left.

30 minutes later, all books had been read and snacks consumed from Anna's bag, and that little room was starting to feel just a little too small. When the door opened, it was neither assistant. It was the radiologist herself.  I could tell it was bad news by the way she looked at me and sat so carefully down on the bed next to me. Ours had no heart beat-- this pregnancy was a miscarriage.

                                               *                                         *                                 *

There are moments that will not leave, eerily similar with both babies' passing: Standing in the shower, warm water over an empty belly and pouring out of my eyes.  The static flat black and white band across the screen where a heart beat is meant to be. Tiny shoulders, arms I want so badly to grow and live and do. 

Since there will be no further earthly chance to be with this babe, here is a small record of what it was like the last night and morning we spent together. It might be slightly more detailed than you'd care for. You can stop now if you're uncomfortable with that. (Like, say, if your name is Colin and blood makes you queasy)

It was a long night of waiting. I wasn't feeling normal, in any sense of that word, but neither was I in great pain. I wanted that pain to come, kept waiting for sharp pangs and work that would let me know it was really happening. But I lay mostly awake all night, mild and occasionally more intense cramping and bleeding throughout.

The morning came, but nothing else.

Eric left to his third day of teaching 5th graders. I began to worry that the medicine wouldn't work, and I'd have to make arrangements for surgery after all.

8:27 am. I felt a warmth, but not a pain. I knew this was it. I ran to the bathroom and at first, it was a handful of thick blood. I'd wanted to catch it, hold it somehow, but it must not be time yet. Then out it came, straight into the toilet. My tiny, limp baby. I didn't even think, just reached into the bowl and pulled it out. There was something almost animalisitc in my movements. I could feel it. What I picture the oft referenced mother bear feels, but it was futile. I couldn't protect anything. And then I became somewhat hysterical. All the aching to be it's mother, the sadness at it's lost life, the realness of this miniature human. Alone in my bathroom I felt it all. Wind blew the leaves outside, and I sobbed great heaving cries.

It felt too sacred to flush. To even be in the same sentence with that word.

I set it down and called Eric, school was about to start, but he needed to know.

"I just had our baby." Sobs and silence on the other end.

I hung up and ran to my bed. Prayed and cried and felt.

I needed to not be alone. I called my mom, who came over immediately and we sat on the couch, crying.

I had thought I was more prepared this time around, and that my initial grief at hearing the news would be the worst of it. But when you stare at your child, dead, moments that will never be flashing through your head, there is a sadness like which I have never felt elsewhere. It can't be kept in, but you know it will always be with you.  A pain entirely your own.