I woke up this morning paralyzed. Paralyzed with fear. With anger. With every fucking emotion that actually exists, except for happiness and joy and all of that other bullshit. How is this possible? How is this our life? How did it come to this? How has it come to this… again? It is as if we are right back to where we started after Simon died. The fog is just as thick. The band-aid that I had finally put over Simon’s wound was ripped off vigorously. The wound is wide open and gushing just as it had been before.
People say we are courageous. Courageous to try again. I don’t think it was courage, it was hope, guilt and an innate desire to make our family complete. For all of that time, we had a sliver of hope. We had another healthy embryo. We had the confidence that I typically got pregnant and stayed pregnant. And in some sense we had guilt. I knew that 10 years down the road I would feel guilty if we hadn’t tried that embryo, Nolan and Simon’s sibling. And, above all, I felt as though our family was not complete, a feeling that will never go away. We want Nolan to have a sibling, one that is alive, one that he can play with, giggle with and probably fight with.
So right before Thanksgiving, we tried. We transfered one remaining embryo. And it worked. It fucking worked. I was pregnant! Two friends made us a very treasured surprise and on Christmas Eve we found out it was a boy. Three boys! That knowledge came with its own set of complex emotions that are too difficult to explain. That being said, there was joy. There was a glimmer of excitement. And, there was hope.
We woke every day with a sense of cautious optimism, at least an ounce of it. We woke every day with a slight, slight sense of hope as we were one day closer to meeting our little guy. Every appointment we went to our stomachs were in knots as we waited to hear his heartbeat and to see how much he had grown. We told the least amount of people as we possibly could as we feared having to tell all of those people of our loss if it happened.
And it happened. It fucking happened. On the morning of my 12 week appointment, I woke up with a glimmer of hope. A glimmer of joy. We had made it to 12 weeks, the “safe zone.” I walked throughout the day thinking about this little guy growing inside of me. I even smiled, Nolan and Simon’s baby brother. Brett and I talked with smiles on our faces in the waiting room as we waited for the ultrasound room to open up. We talked about boy names as we were hoping to choose one soon. We smiled thinking that July 9th wasn’t really that far away. And then our doctor turned the ultrasound on. He had a strange look on his face. He said he couldn’t see what he needed to see because my bladder was too full. The only thing he needed to see was his heartbeat… and he couldn’t see it? And, I had JUST gone to the bathroom. I knew it… I just knew it… I just knew we were about to hear the world’s worst phrase, again. As I slowly walked to the bathroom tears started to fall down my cheeks. How could this be happening? How could this happen again? I just hoped, maybe, just maybe it was just my full bladder, so I emptied and ran back to the room as fast as I could. He tried again to find the baby’s heartbeat. And again. And again. And again. And again. And at that moment, we heard the worst phrase a parent will ever hear. And we heard it for the second time. “Sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”
I hate that this life is nothing like I had pictured it being. Not five years ago. Not one year ago. Not one week ago. The glimmer of hope that I once held is gone.