October 1st

On September 30, 2019, I was almost 9 weeks pregnant with our 2nd child. We attended my grandpa’s birthday party, I felt alright…just needed a nap when we got home – because who doesn’t nap when you’re pregnant? My boobs were sore, I had a little evening sickness…other than that, I felt pretty normal. My husband and I were excited because the next day, October 1st, we would go for our first ultrasound. We were nervous about having babies 26 months apart. Reed still seemed so little and needed so much attention. On the other hand, we were so excited that he would have a close sibling to grow up with.

Justin was coming to the ultrasound from work, and I already worked in the same building as my OB/GYN, so I went to check in at the doctor’s office and called Justin. He was running late from a meeting. They called me back and Justin was not there yet. We had done this a half a dozen times with our first pregnancy, so I figured we would just get started and he could come back when he arrived. The ultrasound tech started on my belly and asked the question about how many pregnancies I had encountered, and did all of them go full term? Weird question to ask, but yeah…just one and yes, it was all fine. Let’s get on with the ultrasound, lady.

She started on my belly and stopped. She said that she thought it may be too early for a topical ultrasound and we would try a vaginal ultrasound – which made perfect sense since that is what happened in our first ultrasound with Reed. She sent me to do a urine sample, and in retrospect, I think it was to stall until my husband arrived.

As I entered back into the room, Justin had arrived. I got back on the table, braced myself for the magical vaginal wand, and waited as she looked at the screen. The TV wasn’t on, and I couldn’t see anything, but I could see Justin’s face, and I was having trouble reading his expression. Why wasn’t she talking? What did they see? I finally spoke up and said “Um, what do you see? Can we turn the screen on so I can see?” She immediately said, “Brooke, I am not finding a heartbeat.” What a gut punch. I can literally still hear those words clear as day. Hot tears started to go down my cheeks and I looked at Justin, realizing that he had been watching her unsuccessfully search for the heart beat for a couple minutes. He already knew.

They ushered us to a clinic room that I had never been in before and we waited for our OB to come in. She came in and through her words, began to cry. She said she had reviewed the ultrasound and we were measuring right on track. She said the miscarriage could have just happened the day before. We discussed our options. She and the nurse both cried with us, hugged us. I am so thankful for them and their support in those moments. I remember them letting us go out the back door. The rest of the day is kind of a blur. It’s so strange being pregnant and then….not pregnant. It was such a rough time.

I don’t want to say I have gotten past it, because do people really ever get past miscarriage? I have gotten better at not thinking about it, but at least once a day, I do think about it. I think about how old our baby would be. They would have been born in May. I think about how we missed out on the chance to give Reed a brother or a sister. I think about what happened – was it a fluke? Was something wrong? Did I do something to cause it? I know if others have been there, they know all of these feelings well. I also think about how if we ever do experience another pregnancy how I will be an absolute, nervous wreck the whole time. Just counting days until the next ultrasound, the next milestone.

I came home from the hospital on October 1st and promptly saw on social media that October was “Pregnancy Loss Awareness” month. While I appreciated this sentiment, it was so freshly painful for me that I couldn’t bear to share our story of loss with anyone. Only a couple close friends and our family had known we were expecting. To announce that you’ve lost something that people didn’t know you had…that’s awkward and painful. I write all of this to say, if you have experienced this, I feel you. I see you. I know the pain of mourning a child you never met. It is a sad, lonely road to navigate. Hang in there. Things will get easier.

Not easy, but easier.