miscarriage

It is 1:25 in the morning on a Wednesday and I am awake miscarrying our first baby. 

Nine weeks of creating life ending huddled on the couch, woozy through the haze of pain and oxycodone.

Yesterday the midwife told us that our baby’s heart had stopped beating. The ultrasound tech was quiet. She was sighing deeply, whirling the probe around inside of me, searching for a heartbeat and finding nothing.

Her leaving a surprise, just like the news of her arrival.

Although it was too early to know, my heart told me, weeks ago, that I was carrying our little girl. 

We were over the moon, in love with one another and the idea of starting our human family. We dreamed and schemed and imagined ourselves being parents. We fell even more in love with one another and this family that we were making.

But that all ended on a Tuesday. The hope for a future and a family swept away from us in an instant. The dreams and the excitement given over to fear and grief. 

It has been two weeks since the bleeding. We are still grieving but we are together. 

We are trying to remember this baby that was ours but was never ours. I will press some flowers from a sympathy bouquet. I will hang it on the wall in the room that would have been yours. I will tell everyone who asks about you, little one.