What do I do? Do I tell Brett? Do I tell him that I haven’t felt the baby move in awhile? They say to track their kicks. To track their patterns. And I’ve been doing just that. But I haven’t felt the kicks. I haven’t felt them and I can’t remember the last time I did. And the pattern. The pattern is different. I’ve felt those kicks every night at 7:00. But where are they? It’s 7:30 and I feel nothing. It’s 8:00 and I feel nothing. It’s 8:30 and I feel nothing.
So I tell him. And we do it. We call the doctor and tell him we are on our way to the hospital. Nolan has already been asleep for a hour, but we have no time to waste. We throw him in the car. We have to get there as fast as we can.
As we drive to the hospital. It’s all the same. Same exact time of night. Same dark roads. Same traffic stops. Same route. Same erie feeling. I start to shake uncontrollably. The panic has set it. We can’t even speak. It is silent in the car. I start to bawl.
We can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this again. I’m not ready to say goodbye. I don’t want to say goodbye. I can’t say goodbye. Not yet. I won’t survive this. I won’t survive this again.
We arrive. It’s different. I’m rushed to Labor and Delivery in a wheelchair, Brett and Nolan running to try and keep up. We are immediately put into a triage room. The nurse takes out the monitor and I can’t take it. I’m not ready to hear what she has to say. I won’t survive what she has to say. I’m not ready to hear that their is no heartbeat.
But this time it’s different. She doesn’t have to say anything at all as we hear it for ourselves.
We hear her heartbeat.