15 weeks, 4 days.

15 weeks, 4 days.

That’s how far we made it.

Today is the first day I’ll no longer count time by the number of weeks and days.

Thursday the appointment with the OB was more bleak than I anticipated. I knew it was going to be bad, the specialist had already told us there was no hope. But, I guess hearing it from another doctor and reading over the specialist’s actual report and then confirming it was over for real – I just went numb.

Yesterday morning I had surgery as we didn’t want to risk waiting any longer for my body to do things on its own and I was at risk for getting a nasty infection. Considering my body has done nothing it’s supposed to do this entire pregnancy, I had no faith this would be over quickly and I couldn’t stand the thought of being pregnant, but not pregnant. If that makes sense.

My doctor prescribed me some sleeping pills. She not only urged me, but He Who Shall Not Be Named, to take one Thursday night so we could try and get some sleep.

Even the sleeping pill wasn’t enough to overpower my sadness and nerves, but I got a better night’s sleep than I would have otherwise.

We got to the hospital super early in the morning. It was very quiet and we were thankful to feel like we had some privacy.

Everyone at the hospital Friday was so wonderfully caring. A few of the nurses shared their own stories of loss with me.

As much as I appreciate knowing I am not alone, it’s hard me to be apart of this “club”.

A club no one wants to be a member of.

I cried going into surgery and I was crying when they woke me up from the general anesthesia.

I didn’t want to wake up, so I closed my eyes and slept for another hour. I could hear the post-op nurses talking around me. Discussing the amount of blood I had lost. Just the normal amount, but enough to make me a little weak for a few days. They talked how it was taking me a little extra time to wake up.

I could have opened my eyes and said I was awake, but I didn’t want to.

The blood pressure cuff went off every 15 minutes.

I was quietly willing them to go get He Who Shall Not Be Named for me.

I didn’t want to open my eyes without him there, yet I didn’t have enough energy to ask them to get him.

The fourth time the blood pressure cuff went off, I opened my eyes. I asked for He Who Shall Not Be Named. The nurse said I wasn’t awake enough to see him, but she’d let him come back for five minutes.

Thankfully, she never asked him to leave and he got to sit with me while I finished my last IV back of meds.

I was released early afternoon and was in a lot of pain.

My parents were waiting for us when we got home. My mom brought me cheese whiz, croissants, and cotton candy. Some of my favorite childhood comfort snacks.

I dozed off for a bit after they left and when I woke up, I actually felt fairly clear minded and I thought things just might be okay.

April came over that evening and brought me some wine and my favorite ice cream. She arranged some of the flowers we had received into vases.

April and He Who Shall Not Be Named both kept saying how well I was coping.

And I was coping well, but now I guess it was just the shock. Or the meds. Or the physical pain I had to cover up the grief I didn’t know how to feel. All I felt yesterday was relief it was all over. That I might get my body back and stop suffering from exhaustion and acid reflux and might get a ski day in this season still and I’ll finally be able to have some sushi and have a cocktail.

I was just upset I had lost so many months of my life, feeling so awful, all for nothing.

All to wake up and feel like it was a nasty joke on me.

I felt guilty, selfish, for feeling that way.

So, I googled a couple of loss groups online, to see if what I was feeling was normal, but reading some of the posts made me feel like an outsider.

No one talked about feeling like I did.

What was I doing wrong?

I decided to go ahead and post something on Facebook. I knew the messages and comments would roll in and I knew I just had to get it over with and put it out there so I could try and find a way to move on and deal with it all.

The kind words and prayers came in. I started getting some private messages. It was a little overwhelming and I felt like I had to respond to everyone right away. Some things that were said upset me.

Some people who hadn’t yet said anything upset me more.

I kept having to remind myself there is no right or wrong thing to do in these situations.

I kept reminding myself I rarely have the right things to say when I’m on the other side.

I went to bed hopeful I’d still feel even better in the morning.


This morning I woke up and it all came crashing down.

The physical pain had eased significantly overnight.

All I am now left with is a big, gaping, painful emptiness that hurts worse than any phsyical pain or discomfort I’ve felt for the past few months combined.

It’s pain that’s left me paralyzed for hours at a time. I stumble from the couch to the bed, not knowing what to do with myself.

By late afternoon I had to scream for He Who Shall Not Be Named to come help me out bed. It felt like my body had melted into the mattress and I’d never move again.

I no longer have the energy to respond to the messages. It’s sweet other people are sharing their stories, but I just can’t deal with them right now. I can’t cope with other’s people pain on top of my own, too. Not now.

It’s just all too much.

I don’t want to answer my phone.

I can’t answer the question of, “how are you?”

Isn’t the answer obvious?

I’m not okay.

I lost a piece of myself yesterday. It’s all I can do not to turn around and go back to that hospital and ask for my baby back.

I never even got to feel him move.

But, I knew he was there. Every day, every minute of the 95 days he was with me, I was thinking of him. Everything I ate and drank and every movement I made – it was all with him in mind.

Now, I don’t know what to do with myself without him with me.

I didn’t know it would feel like this. I tried so hard to focus on the scientific facts. To remain rational. To separate myself from the fact he was a baby in there. To listen to the doctors and read the reports. There was nothing that could have been done. We just hit the the [worst] luck of the draw.

I just hope we get some answers. I don’t want to live through this again.

Because, no matter how hard I tried, there’s no outrunning the grief with any amount of facts or reason.

Thankfully, a snow storm here has a good excuse to hole up in the house for the weekend.

After much prodding from April, I’m finally starting to watch the series Nashville, and it’s addictive.

He Who Shall Not Be Named made me an ice cream shake and is just sitting by me, holding my hand. We’re learning to settle into this new normal and we’ll find a way to move through it together.

We’re planning a spring vacation. We were supposed to go on a relaxing, beach babymoon. Instead, we’re changing plans and going to go to Paris and drink wine and eat lots of unpasturized cheese.

And be newlyweds for a while.

In the meantime, thank you all for your support, your kind words, your thoughts and your prayers.

Even if I can’t do a good job of showing my appreciation right now, know that it means the world to me that you all are acknowledging what we’re going through.


  1. I wish I could say something to help ease your pain, but I know nothing I say will do any good. Please know that my thoughts and prayers are with you and I am so sorry you lost your baby.

  2. I love you so much. You were a wonderful mother to this baby. You will be a wonderful mother again. For now, give yourself the gift of space to feel and be whatever you need to be to get through it. a hermit, a party girl, a baker, a writer, alone for days or a girls weekend with me- and let no one tell you how you should handle it. grieve, like only a mother can. always my love to you!

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