All The Details

Note: this story contains graphic descriptions of miscarriage and grief related to child loss.

I remember it all. 

It started with my dad’s crushing hug after the news.

No heartbeat.

He hugged me so tight it felt as if he was trying to keep all the pieces of my breaking heart together.

I remember it all. All of the little details from that night. That horrendous night. I remember the pain, the cramps starting in my lower abdomen and working their way up. I remember sitting in the warm bath, holding myself like my dad had held me, as the pain tore through my body. I remember sitting up and draining the tub, telling my husband to call my parents, to get out so I could get dressed, praying he didn’t see the blood pouring out of my body. My blood. Our son’s blood. He listened, thankfully, and walked out, closing the shower curtain as I turned on the shower, sobbing as the pain wracked my body as I watched the crimson swirls disappear down the drain, my legs stained. I remember stepping out of the shower, hurriedly slipping on clothes. I could barely move, barely walk, the pain still tearing through me. Walking down the stairs, climbing into the car, arriving at my parent’s house, it was all a blur. All I remember from that time was barging into my parents house, their faces as I rushed to the bathroom to switch pads. I remember my dad’s cool expression, calm as he told my mom to take us to the hospital. I remember my moms furrowed brow, the pain barely contained as she watched me being tortured by this loss. I remember my sisters staring at me with wide eyes, my younger siblings playing games upstairs, oblivious to what was happening. I remember climbing into my mom’s car, doubling over because of the pain. I remember her telling me to breathe, that it was okay, my husbands hand rubbing my head, grasping my hand as I begged my body not to cry. To just stop. To let me keep him.

I remember getting to the hospital, unable to even walk. I remember my pregnant triage nurse, looking at me with sadness and ‘I’m so sorry’ in her eyes. I remember looking at her big tummy and wishing, begging God to let me be there, to let this not be happening, to let my son live. I remember my nurse rushing through the questions, trying so hard to get me a room. I could barely speak. I remember asking for a barf bag, feeling as if I wasn’t about to barf, then I was going to pass out from the pain still ripping away at me, the blood pooling between my legs. I remember the nurse wheeling me back to a room. The IV, the blood tests, the check up, all a blur. I remember sitting up, the nurse telling me they needed a urine sample. I told her I was bleeding too much. She told me to try. I remember walking down to the bathroom, my steps slow, my face pale from loss of blood. I remember sitting down. I remember the feel of him leaving my body. I remember muffling my scream as the blood soaked my hand, filling the cup to the brim with him. I remember throwing the cup directly in the trash and my heart tearing through my body as I turned to look and flush, horror wracking through my body. I remember stumbling to the sink, cleaning the blood and not daring to look at myself in the mirror, knowing I wouldn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. I glanced up anyway. My face was pale, pink around my eyes, neon green irises staring back at me. Who was this torn woman staring back at me? I shook my head and stumbled back to my room, informing the nurses there was too much blood, that I couldn’t get the sample.

I remember my husband and mother coming back to the room with me, my husband holding my hand tight and my mother trying to lighten the mood with talk of funny restaurant visits. I remember her telling the story, trying to make light of my husband just wanting to get back to the hospital, back to me. I remember looking at him, trying so hard to smile and seeing the same forced, painful smile on his face. I remember my mom telling me it was okay. I remember the nurses coming back into the room, checking everything, wheeling me away to get an ultrasound. I remember the sweet male nurse with a Fallout lanyard. I remember him giving me blankets to keep me warm. I remember the dark room and texting my friends, trying to keep a grasp on reality when all I wanted to do was dream. Dream of a small blond haired boy. Dream of blue eyes, small fingers and red lips. I remember the nurse doing the ultrasound, talking to me of how she had been in the same place once. I remember her explaining to me everything on the ultrasound. The fetal pole, how everything was pretty much gone, my ovaries. I zoned out.

I remember returning to my room, the pain gone. The physical pain anyway. I remember relaying to my mom and my husband what the ultrasound tech had said, trying to keep my voice from breaking. I couldn’t look at them. I remember feeling like a failure. I had failed my husband. I had lost his son. I had failed my mother. She had had 6 hard, but successful pregnancies and here I was… losing my first. I had failed my dad. I had put him through so much pain and had now lost his first grandson. I had failed everyone. I had failed my son. I couldn’t even keep him alive. I remember the emptiness inside. The physical and mental emptiness. I remember getting in the car, going back to my parents house. I remember my dad hugging my mom. I remember my sisters looking at me with big hopeful eyes. I remember being unable to even utter a word, just shaking my head. I remember my sister falling into my arms, sobbing, clinging to me, holding me as tight as she could. I remember her walking out to take a breather, my other sister, keeping her composure, hugging me. I remember my dad hugging me, telling me it was okay. I remember him asking if I wanted my sister to come home with me to help take care of me and me saying yes. I remember my husband carrying my things. I remember walking out to the car and my dad talking to us. I remember him telling us it was okay. That this hurt. That this sucked. That it was a pain that would never fully go away but we would come back from it. That this wasn’t the end. That we needed to mourn, but not get lost in our pain. I remember hugging him and getting in the car, no one speaking.

I remember getting home, crawling into bed and clinging to my husband, the pain inside me becoming too much. I remember crying silently into his chest, finally letting the emotional pain sink into my heart, to overtake my entire body. I dug my fingers into his shirt, holding him as close to me as I possibly could and begged for sleep. The pain became too much, the tears blurring my vision and I fell asleep, grateful for the peace. For now, for a few hours, I could be at peace and dream of blond curls, blue eyes and chubby arms hugging me tight.