I’m Sorry, There’s No Heartbeat

Disclaimer: This post contains candid descriptions of miscarriage, pregnancy loss, bleeding, and grief. I’m sharing the reality of my experience because these are the parts of pregnancy loss we don’t talk about enough. Please take care of yourself while reading.

 Tomorrow is my due date.

A due date for a baby I’ll never get to meet.

After becoming a mom again at 40, with children who were already adults, I couldn’t imagine what life had in store for me.

Pregnant again.

As I looked down at those two lines, I wept. I was excited, but I was scared. I thought I was too old at 40,and so did my doctors.

I couldn’t imagine having two under two again. But when I told my husband, he did what he always does. He told me everything would be alright.

My nerves calmed, and as the days went by, I started to get excited.

I imagined a sibling for Sophia. I imagined the two of them growing up together, having adventures and sharing secrets that only they knew.

We told our family, and they were excited too. Everyone was getting ready to welcome a new little sibling.

I had an ultrasound scheduled for my 11 week checkup.

The night before, I laid in bed and worried. Not because I was scared something was wrong, but because with Sophia, I had been so worried something was wrong.

This time, I was worried because I wasn’t worried.

Mom brain…right?

The next day, we arrived at my appointment, and we were so excited to show Sophia her new sibling on the screen.

I laid down and the ultrasound began.

And there was my perfect little baby.

I smiled the biggest smile, and I heard my husband say, “Look, Sophia. That’s your little baby brother or sister.”

It was a joyful moment.

Then I noticed something strange.

Not on the screen.

On the technician’s face.

Slowly, she looked at me.

And what came next would change my life forever.

“I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”

I heard the words echo in my head.

I couldn’t comprehend what she was saying.

Suddenly, I looked over at my husband, and a single tear dripped down his face.

I lost it.

“No. No, it can’t be. What did I do wrong?”

I slowly got dressed, and they took us into another room.

My husband was calm. I know he was screaming on the inside. He held me and once again told me everything would be alright.

The doctor came in,the same doctor who had delivered Sophia.

I could barely look at her.

She remembered me and was happy to see Sophia. She held my hand and told me she was sorry. I could see the empathy on her face.

We talked about what would happen next and what to look for in the days to come.

As I was leaving the office, it felt like everyone knew.

Nurses came from every direction to express their condolences.

They did nothing wrong.

They were so sweet, and maybe some of them had gone through this themselves.

But in that moment, I saw red.

Rage rushed through my body.

I didn’t want to be touched.

I didn’t want to hear the words “I’m sorry.”

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to yell.

I wanted to throw something.

I wanted to run out of that building and never look back.

My husband could see it in my face. He took my hand and got me out of there.

I barely remember the drive home. I know we talked, but I don’t remember what was said.

I spent the evening waiting, not knowing what was actually going to happen.

By 8 p.m., I started to bleed.

And I knew what was happening.

I felt myself losing control again, and I wished I could stop it.

I didn’t want it to happen.

I wasn’t ready.

Everything was happening too fast.

As I sat there trying to process what was actually happening, I felt something.

Dread came over me as I looked in the toilet.

I screamed so loudly I scared Sophia.

She screamed.

I screamed.

My husband came running to console us both, confused as to what had just happened.

He laid Sophia down and stepped into the bathroom.

I lay there, hugging the toilet, blood everywhere.

I’ve never felt so empty in my life.

We sat there for over an hour, just crying.

Neither of us wanted to do what we knew needed to be done.

We held each other.

We prayed.

We both said our goodbyes.

And with both of our hands on the handle…

we flushed.

It felt wrong.

Our sweet baby deserved better.

As the days went by, I felt every emotion.

Denial.

Grief.

Anger.

Sadness.

And eventually, acceptance.

I don’t tell my story for sympathy.

I tell it because I want to talk about a topic I don’t think is talked about enough.

We talk about the loss.

But we don’t talk about the raw moments.

The flashes of memories that come flooding back while you’re washing the dishes.

The little reminders of what was supposed to be.

The love you can feel so deeply for someone you’ve never even met.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time I had experienced a miscarriage.

I had miscarried very early before, and I mourned and grieved that baby too.

But this one felt different.

I can’t completely explain why.

Maybe because I had seen what was supposed to be.

Maybe because I got to imagine a life that was suddenly taken away.

Maybe because I got to say goodbye.

My husband and I decided to give our baby a name because we felt our baby deserved one.

We will keep that name to ourselves.

But we will always hold both of our babies in our hearts.

Forever.

As the weeks went by, I thought we were getting through it.

Each day felt a little easier.

We were beginning to find our way through the grief.

Little did we know…

the nightmare wasn’t over.

If you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, I want you to know you’re not alone.

If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d love for you to tell me your story in the comments. You don’t have to share anything you’re not ready to share. But if you need a place to say the words out loud, this is a safe place to do that.

And if you’ve never experienced a loss like this, but someone you love has, maybe this story will help you understand a little more about the parts of grief we don’t always see.