It's been a long two weeks. Impossibly long, spent overly aware of every small blip of pressure or shadow of pain anywhere toward the middle of my body. I did my best not to succumb to fear or indulge anxiety, choosing instead to focus on the positive and to set firm, immovable intentions to have this baby. All in all, I think I kept it together pretty well.
Finally it was time to see my baby again. I was nervous to the point of distraction, getting myself mixed up over little things like what time it was. I picked Scott up from work and he gently provided me with directions to the doctor's office, as I was too muddled to remember where I was going.
We arrived and were quickly ushered into the little room for our sonogram. I prayed silently, begging to see the flutter of my baby's heart beat on the screen. Instead, the image showed a tiny, still body, set inside a big black hole. She had faded away sometime between the last visit and this morning.
Shock. Panic. Rage. Tears. Quiet.
We've scheduled an operation for tomorrow, because I'd rather not go through the physical pain of the loss along with the mental. And because I have a two year old who needs me, and a paycheck to earn, and a book to finish, and I can't afford to spend days writhing in bed.
Tomorrow afternoon I will go to the hospital and they will remove my baby from my body. Until then, I can feel her right here, close to me. Until then I'll be trying to say goodbye.
I read a book recently where the main character, who'd lost a baby to stillbirth, reflected many years later that we never truly lose our children. No matter how short a time we were allowed to know them, they will always be with us.
It's a cruel and beautiful thing to realize that she was right.