This week we’re sharing our (baby) stories here on Modern Mrs Darcy. This week is devoted to childbirth, but like so much I talk about here, it’s not just about childbirth: it’s about our hopes and our dreams, our beliefs and our fears. It’s about focusing on what’s truly important. I’ll be sharing a little bit of my own story each day this week. You can read all posts in this series here.
We were so excited when we found out we were pregnant with our third. This was the pregnancy we planned, the only one that happened on our timing.
The first time I was pregnant, the possibility of miscarriage never occurred to me. We were young; we didn’t yet know how much could go wrong.
But since that first innocent pregnancy I’d read the statistic that 1 out of 3 known pregnancies ends in miscarriage, and I’d seen it prove true in my friend’s lives. I was very aware that this was my third pregnancy. I wasn’t overly concerned–we were making plans and talking names–but the statistic lingered in my mind.
At ten weeks, I started spotting. My doctor said not to worry: I’d done the same thing with my second pregnancy.
But the next day I started bleeding, heavily–and the ultrasound showed there was no life in my womb.
My doctor talked me through what would happen, and then gave me a hug before leaving, telling me to take my time to collect myself before I left. I just wanted to get to my car so I could cry by myself.
But first, I had to checkout. The nurse on duty smiled, took my file, and asked when I was due. I couldn’t answer her. I just shook my head, tears brimming in my eyes.
She meant well, I know she did. These things happen for a reason. It’s your body’s way of taking care of things. That baby could have had horrible birth defects. It’s a good thing, really.
And that may all have been true.
But her intellectual assurances offered no comfort. The child in my womb was small, there were lifetimes of hope bound up in that imperfectly formed body. From the moment those two pink lines emerged on that stick, I’d seen our little family joyously welcome this new baby a thousand times in my mind.
But though the child was still in my womb there was no life, and no hope.
When someone’s hope dies, there are no explanations that satisfy. There are no rationalizations that make hope’s death a good thing.
No, all you can say is I’m sorry.