We were super brave and signed up for a table at our church’s FALLFest! It was a little scary, honestly, to go with the intention of sharing my bracelets and our journey to become parents with so many people. We’ve … Continue reading
October is a hard month for us. Truthfully, we have a lot of hard months, but October is the worst one. We lost our sweet Baby Hope on October 1, 2010 when I was 12 weeks pregnant. She was beautiful … Continue reading
October 1st, 2010 started out with excitement. I went to work for a bit, ready to leave and meet Schmoopy at the doctor later that morning. We were going to a new place, the kind with the super fancy ultrasound. We were going to see our sweet baby on the big screen. We couldn’t wait!
We filled out piles of paperwork when we arrived, but we didn’t care. We just keep whispering to one another about seeing our baby. We’ve had 12 weeks of bliss! How beautiful he or she was going to be and how in love we were with this little miracle of ours.
The ultrasound tech was nice. She looked around. Asked me to go to bathroom. Looked around again. She told us to hold on. I started to get nervous. She came in with a doctor. The doctor repeated everything the tech had done. She did a few new things. I was panicked. Schmoopy and I held hands and worried. Then she said it.
“We can’t find a heartbeat.”
I think I screamed. I’m not sure. David gasped. We both cried. I remember is shaking and not being able to breathe.
The doctor was kind. She was sorry. She tried to explain that it just happens sometimes.
They needed the room. I got dressed. We walked across the hall to another room. We sat there and didn’t talk. I felt shattered. Everything was wrong.
She came back to talk to us. Take as long as you need. It’s okay. But nothing was okay.
I remember wanting to get out of that tiny room and go home. We walked through the office, it was filled with happy pregnant couples. The receptionist told us to go. They didn’t need anything. Just go. I don’t think she wanted us to cry in front of everyone. We were zombies then. Moving without knowing what was really happening.
We got in our cars and headed home. Neither of us should have been driving. I called my mom. It was just a jumbled mess of sobs and screams. She got the idea and joined my heartache.
David called his parents when we got home and it was more of the same.
The next few days were filled with nightmares, angry conversations with God, forcing ourselves to breathe.
We went to my obgyn. The surgery was scheduled for two days later. We didn’t know anything. We didn’t know babies died. We didn’t know. So we just did what she told us.
I was hysterical. The nurse in the pre-op room was annoyed. It happens all the time, she told me. I felt dead. This was our baby. I couldn’t help our baby. She had them call for David more quickly than normal. He was the only other person in the universe that could calm me.
I woke up and it was over. The post-op nurse was much more gentle and kind. She got David as soon as she could. I was loopy and giggly. It felt nice. I called family and friends and said silly things to them. They loved it. I sounded like me again. I didn’t want it to end.
We went home with a bag of medications and several more prescriptions to be filled. There were directions and times and schedules and appointments. It was so clinical and the silliness of my surgery meds were gone.
I was in pain. Physically and mentally. I was broken. David was so amazing. He shoved down his grief and cared for me with so much love and compassion. He stayed with me every second that I slept, because he knew I’d wake up screaming or sobbing. He gave me all the pills right on schedule and made all the follow up appointments. We cried together a lot in those days. We didn’t know how or why. We only knew complete nothingness.
It was the start of the dark times. After my body was healed, everything else feel apart. I moved through the world, accomplished tasks, but didn’t feel anything but loss. I felt meaningless and unworthy.
Every human interaction was physically painful to me. The questions, the comments, the not understanding.
The dark times lasted longer than they should have, but we didn’t know any better. I took my antidepressants and found a support group, SHARE Atlanta, that helped. I went to counseling, too. I prayed and had angry conversations with God. I was so hurt. So angry. Why didn’t we get our baby. Why did she die? Why did He do this to us?
I worked with 6 or 7 women who were pregnant. There were jokes that we had something in the water. So many pregnant teachers. There must me something in the water. They started having babies. Healthy, chubby, red faced little loves. I became more and more broken inside.
I took an extended trip to my best friend’s house around the time of our due date. Spending time with Amy helped so much. All love and no judgement. It was beautiful to spend time with her and her family. It was the start of my healing. I will always love her for that, more than I can ever express to her.
We still don’t know what happened. We didn’t know what questions to ask or which tests to demand. I hate it. I hate that we didn’t even know we could have had her cremated. We didn’t know. I try so hard to let this piece of the story go, but I can’t seem to make that happen. We just didn’t know.
It’s four years today. Four years since the worst day. The worst day. We still haven’t been able to have a child. Fertility treatments, medications, shots, and thousands of dollars couldn’t fix the broken parts of me. The parts that couldn’t save Baby Hopes. The pieces that were shattered and couldn’t be fixed. This isn’t a call for pity. It is simply the truth. The dark times have ended, though they still show up sometimes. Especially on big days like today.
Things are so much different now. We are still so blissfully in love. We are surrounded by so many amazing people in our lives. We are healing. But it won’t ever be the same. We are in God’s loving hands and filled with a new kind if Hope these days.
We are in the super early stages of adoption. We are fundraising and looking at a agencies. We have a renewed sense of purpose through adoption and Hope is once again helping our hearts to beat.
This will always be our worst day. We will always grieve for our sweet Baby Hope. We love you always, Baby Hope. Someday we will hold you in our arms.
Thank you all for the love, prayers, and compassion. Our hearts are always so full with your loving kindness.
One day, Baby J, you will be in our arms. I will tell you the story of all the people who love you and pray for you from all over the world. You are so already very loved, Baby J. So loved.
This is our Baby Hope bear from Molly Bears. We love her so.