I've lost the baby.
I hate the terminology, you know? It doesn't really work. I lost the baby? It sounds careless. I've had a miscarriage? Hardly a word that encompasses the ultrasound image I saw yesterday, of a tiny body curled up, looking like a still baby bird, perfectly formed in every way we could see...except for the eerie stillness. And so shall I say that? The baby died?
That is too horrible, and I can't say the words.
But I don't suppose there is any words that would make it easier. Yesterday I went in for an ultrasound, at what was supposed to be 16 or 15 weeks gestation. Clay was with me, because I knew something was wrong. I'd demanded the appointment, unable to wait anymore for my scheduled ultrasound on Thursday. I lay on the table and gripped Clay's hand. The room was too hot.
Of course, I've already told you what we saw. The doctor adjusted the picture and asked me how far along I was supposed to be. I stammered on an on about 16 weeks strictly by dates, but my cycle tends to be long, so we thought closer to 15 weeks. It was like a nightmare, where you can't make yourself say the words that make sense.
And on the screen, my tiny, still baby, curled up and motionless.
"As you can see here," he motioned a circle on the chest, "there is no heartbeat. The size is what we'd expect to see in a twelve to thirteen week pregnancy. I am so sorry."
And oh, I am sorry too.
I keep wondering where I was, what I was doing when that life winked out.
"It's not your fault," Clay says. And yes, I know. I know. Only...what was I doing? How did I not know?
Last night we lay in bed, forehead to forehead, whispering. Tears leaked endlessly onto my pillow.
"Our life is good," I said, and Clay agreed. "It really is. Only...now, I don't know how I will ever stop being sad and live it again."
Clay says that I don't need to worry about that right now, and that maybe, for now, being sad is what we are supposed to do. I hope he's right, because it's about all I can achieve today.