I’ve been the pregnant woman who experienced the worst case scenario—the mother with a baby born into heaven.
I’ve experienced the silence that comes with having a prenatal ultrasound that doesn’t quite look right—and the awkward interaction with a technician who has bad news but no authority to deliver it.
I’ve been the one sitting half-dressed on the crinkly paper of an exam table, listening to a doctor tell me that something is wrong with my baby.
I’ve been the one listening to a specialist tell me my baby will die.
I’ve been the one sobbing hysterically in an exam room, with doctors and nurses who have nothing to offer me but pity and helplessness.
I’ve been the one delivering a baby who didn’t and would never cry.
I’ve been the one leaving the hospital in shock, my womb empty and arms with nothing to hold.
I can’t imagine anything worse, really.
Except having to do it alone. Or with no one but strangers present.
It turns out I was lucky to have my husband there—in each of those scenarios. I was lucky to have him there to hold my hand. I was lucky that he’d been able to come to every prenatal appointment, even— maybe especially—the bad ones.
I was lucky that he was present for the few ultrasounds I had because those would become some of the most significant parts of his child’s life.
I was lucky he was there in that hospital room to cry with me, before becoming my sturdy support in the dizziness of grief and loss.
I was lucky we got to say goodbye to our baby together.
I was lucky to have my husband walk with me out of that hospital and into my favorite fast food joint to grab me a burger and fries before returning home emptier than I ever knew I could feel.
I was lucky to have my father-in-law stay with my living child as we said goodbye to the sibling she wouldn’t get to meet.
I was lucky to have my mom come help take care of my daughter—and me—so I could stay in bed for a week and cry.
I was lucky to have friends come in my house with meals and groceries and hugs.
No, there isn’t anything lucky about losing a baby.
But I was fortunate to have support in ways that aren’t possible right now.
There are mamas saying goodbye to their babies right now, and they are doing it alone. There are mamas grieving their babies, and they are doing it alone.
If you are one of them, I’m so sorry.
You deserve all the support the world has to offer. And I’m so sorry it can’t get to you right now.