It was Sunday afternoon. Throughout the week, and at church earlier that morning, we had told many of our closest friends that we were expecting. Everyone was rejoicing along with us, and we were basking in the glow of what seemed like a bright future.
But that afternoon, in the quiet of our home, a shadow fell. I began bleeding. It was one of the warning signs my doctor and all my reading had told me to watch out for. Though it could have many underlying causes, I knew it was bad news, and as I told Ben, my heart sank, fearing the worst. We could lose this baby. Ever the optimist, Ben told me not to worry about what we didn’t know.
It was the weekend, so when I called the doctor’s office they had to page my doctor. The woman on the phone told me she would call within the hour. After what seemed like an agonizing wait, my phone rang. I hesitated before answering.
The doctor asked some questions, told me she was so sorry I was experiencing this, and told me to come in the next day for an ultrasound, first thing in the morning. The tone of her voice was full of compassion, but not optimism.
I was crushed, and remember feeling abandoned as I sat down on the couch next to Ben. No one was going to be doing anything for my baby until tomorrow morning. I felt helpless. There was nothing I could do to stop the bleeding, nothing I could do to protect my baby. All I could do was wait, but waiting didn’t seem good enough.
We prayed. Ben reminded me that we didn’t know why I was bleeding and that we shouldn’t worry about the unknowns ahead, but the sinking feeling in my gut only sunk deeper. I lay on the couch and just wept. It felt like my world was spinning out of control.
We called and texted friends and family, letting them know what was happening and asking them to pray. They reassured us, prayed with us, and comforted us, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. It almost felt like our baby was already gone, and I was afraid I would be disappointed if I hoped otherwise.
I don’t remember much from that evening, but I remember feeling numb when we lay down for bed that night. I was exhausted, but I didn’t know how I would sleep at all. I wanted to drift off and forget my fears, but I was afraid of what the morning would bring.
When I woke the next morning, the numbness remained. For several minutes I lay there, not wanting to get up and face the day. I placed my hand on the belly, where I imagined the baby was inside my womb, and I cried and prayed, begging the Lord to spare the life of my unborn child. “Mommy loves you,” I remember whispering to the baby through my tears. "Mommy loves you so much!"
Ben held my hand all the way to the doctor’s office. I don’t remember what we talked about, or even if we spoke much at all. I dreaded what we would find out at the ultrasound, expecting the worst and afraid to hold out any hope for good news.
The ultrasound tech was very sweet and compassionate. She gave me a cup to pee in and told me to take all the time I needed. I tried to keep the blood from contaminating the sample, but it was impossible. My hand trembled uncontrollably when I handed her the cup of bloodstained urine. She spoke so tenderly when she took it from me. “I know this is so hard for you,” she said.
I lay down on the table and tried to hold back the tears. Ben clasped my hand as she began the ultrasound and we looked once again to the screen. How different this experience was from our first ultrasound just a week before!
Once again, the blurry images filled the screen and then the bean shaped body of our baby appeared. The tech took some measurements, but didn’t say a word. I thought the baby looked different than it had last time, blurrier, less distinct.
Ben broke the silence. “How big is the baby?” he asked. She answered and continued making notations. Her silence was troubling and I knew something wasn’t right. Ben said something, which I can’t recall now, but I was waiting for the ultrasound tech to say something, anything.
At last, she took her hands from the equipment, and turning to face us she said, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t see a heartbeat.”