The Life I Have

Some people like to carelessly throw around the phrase “life can change in an instant.” For me, it was around forty-five seconds; nearly a minute of holding my breath until the pale, sterile walls of the doctor’s office started to soak up the remnants of my hopes and dreams.

I woke up slightly nervous that morning, but that was understandable. Most expectant mothers are always anxious. Early on especially, the miracle of growing life finds foe in the probability of success. It’s not like a wound on your skin you can watch heal; you have to wait 4 weeks or more to get a glimpse. It’s the seed in the ground you have to trust is growing beneath the surface until the first delicate green tendrils break through and aim for the sky.

Having had two prior losses should have added to my worry, but it hadn’t. Some things are less likely to happen after occurring twice rather than the other way around. My husband and I kept commenting that the third time was going to be the charm; we had paid our dues. Also, this time was assuredly God’s gift to us to compensate for my husband’s father dying of cancer—a life for a life.

My husband said that Baba had been so happy when he told him we were having a baby. We wanted to give him something positive to hold on to before he went in to have a clump of cells removed that had been eating up the cigarette-damaged tissues of his lungs. I could imagine how his smile would have broken through his sunken, gaunt face.

Just three weeks before, we had made it to the heartbeat stage for the first time, pandemic style. I was on a video call with my husband trying to turn my camera at just the right angle so he could get a good glimpse at our little flutterer. I’m sure my doctor was smiling under her face shield and mask. She knew what a monumental moment this was in our journey.

We had a heartbeat, statistical probability, and God’s will on our side. Disappointed optimism always makes me feel a fool.

I was in a different exam room this time, same players: my doctor, her assistant, and my husband on a grainy video chat. I had sent him to a nearby store to pick up a few things while I was getting checked in. It was a good thing he made it back to his car. It would forever taint shopping to get devastating news between the frozen waffles and pints of ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s would have to add a trigger warning to their cartons.

My neck was straining to the side so I could see the ultrasound screen. Holding my phone up so my husband could see added tension to the other side of my neck. But it was just temporary discomfort.

The scan swept back and forth through my womb. It was like a kaleidoscope of circular and half-moon shapes, just in black and white. There was supposed to be a focal point though, a larger actualization of our tiny flutterer…there wasn’t.

My doctor’s tone changed as she tried to find the best way to tell us the bad, no devastating, no life-altering news—our little flutterer was no more. I wanted to scream, but I was too focused on the logistics of what to do next. I thought it best to close the call my with husband; I would mourn with him later. I just wanted to get away, out of the room that was too small and drab to house my building tsunami of pain.

My doctor’s medical assistant didn’t look me in the eyes. I couldn’t blame her for shielding herself from the contamination of my broken heart. There was no piece of personal protective equipment that could spare her if she had gotten too close.

I challenged myself to make it out of the building without drawing attention. I was twenty feet out when I reached my husband, his tight hug broke the levees of my suffering, and I began to sob. He could only be strong for me for just a few minutes though. Once in the car, he dropped his strong façade. I’ve never seen such torment as watching someone curse God for taking their baby and their father.

Now, we would have to begin the process of readjusting our lives. We had practiced the drill twice before: call our friends and family to tell them to cancel the excitement, text when we felt we couldn’t get the words out. I notified my boss that I wouldn’t be in for a few days, and oh, I would no longer need flexibility to take time off for future appointments nor weeks of leave in about seven months’ time.

The hardest part in some ways is having to rewrite my life story: Erase the idea of binging Christmas movies while on maternity leave. Cast aside the hope that our flutterer would be born on Baba’s birthday, a fitting tribute. Tell my sister not to bother shipping maternity clothes. Cross making a gift registry off my future to-do list. Kiss the idea of a cute Mother’s Day social media post and a mom-to-be photo shoot goodbye.

The life I had wanted, needed to live was no more, crushed in forty-five seconds. I was just left with the life I had, trading down excitement for sadness, hope for despair, love for loss.