When it happens again

I tried not to get too excited this time.

When I saw those two blue lines appear again, my heart soared with hope. Followed immediately by its evil cousins—fear and anxiety. Anxiety doesn’t like you to get too hopeful about anything.

“Trying not to get excited won’t make it hurt any less if you have another loss,” my therapist told me.

She was right.

I didn’t download any pregnancy apps, although I did occasionally peek at the What to Expect website. I didn’t spend time daydreaming about the future, but I did have a brief vision of my three children dressed up for Halloween, the youngest just a few weeks old. I didn’t share the news with many people, though I did confess to Josh how anxiety and peace were warring within me every single day of this pregnancy.

I laid on the exam table at our 8 week appointment feeling oddly calm. The nurse—who was exceedingly kind to us—spread gel over my belly and placed the ultrasound wand on top. I squeezed my eyes shut, heard the click-click-click as she took measurements. I told myself I would look only after the nurse told us something encouraging, like the baby’s heart rate or how long they were measuring. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said finally. I opened my eyes and hot tears began falling out, like they had been waiting there all along. 

After our miscarriage last October at 10 weeks pregnant, words and emotions spilled out of me day and night. I processed the trauma by writing, by talking, by crying. But now? It seems as if my well of words has run dry. What can you possibly say when it happens again? It feels too horrific to lose two babies within a span of 5 months. Three if you count saying goodbye to our foster baby, Cece. 

I have my husband, my boys, my health. Friends and family I love dearly. I have a fridge full of food, a lovely home, a neighborhood where I can walk with my children and point out blooming flowers. I have so, so much. But I don’t have the babies that I lost. And right now, the pain of that feels too deep for words.