I just found myself with my forehead resting on my desk, tears in the back of my throat but unwilling to be shed. In my Facebook stream, a woman I don’t know well at all shared that she’s currently sitting where I was nine years ago Saturday; absorbing the news that her baby has died in her womb, and in the hospital coping with the aftermath.
There is nothing about being in that place that doesn’t fucking suck. She’s not as sick as I was, and in some ways that’s far worse. It was hard for me to think clearly about what was happening because I was so busy being ill, and the real grief didn’t plunge into my heart until the sickness began to abate.
I went into the hospital on October 26th; well, I went for our anatomy ultrasound. It was a few weeks late. We weren’t in a rush because we’d already had so very many ultrasounds of the twins, thanks to my infertility treatments. I’d seen Nicholas and Zachary when they were tiny, four-celled organisms. I also knew they were healthy and genetically normal thanks to testing via CSV when they were just 11 weeks along. There was no pressure to get that anatomy ultrasound at all.
Of course, you all know the story. Along with seeing the curves of the boys’ noses and their tiny clenched fists, we saw the absence of one heartbeat and quickly learned that I was so sick with preeclampsia that I needed to be admitted to the hospital. And just 18 hours later I was much, much sicker and we were forced to terminate the pregnancy.
Ah, there are the tears now.
It’s amazing how the body holds on to this grief. I’ve faced this week as if it were normal, but yesterday I found myself snacking all day long, pouring food into the gaping hole of grief inside me. Oddly, I didn’t know why I was doing it, not until I saw my friend’s update today. Not until just now when I finally allowed the tears to fall, again, again, and again.
My boys. They would have been so beautiful. How can I still miss them so god damned much?
Please, spare some prayers for Allie. She’ll need them today.