It makes it hard to write (or think) about anything other then the source of your sadness.
The source of my sadness is a dead baby.
Really, it was only a gathering of cells, not an actual baby yet, but it would have been.
And it makes me sad that I never got to meet it.
Ironically, I got a negative pregnancy test a week before the ER told me I was knocked up. (That’s not actually ironic, ironically.)
So, obviously, I had a sneaking suspicion that we had accidentally made a baby.
Before the negative home test I kept thinking, “I think I’ll get concurrent care with an OB for this pregnancy.” Meaning, I wasn’t feeling comfortable with just using my home birth midwife like I had for Emie’s birth. Also meaning, I knew something wasn’t going to be quite “right” with this pregnancy or baby.
Now I’m almost feeling guilty for those early thoughts about a less then perfect baby.
Honestly, when I thought about it, my mind went immediately to Down’s Syndrome and the possible heart conditions that go hand-in-hand with it.
I would also think fondly of the face of a little boy with the distinctive features of a child with DS.
I did not think I would miscarry.
I didn’t expect it.
I expected to love and cuddle a baby with a difference. I expected the beauty, struggle, and life change that would come with a special needs child.
I was already embracing how this would change me and my little family before I took that negative test.
So when they told me I was indeed pregnant, I already felt like I knew who I was miscarrying.
I think it broke my heart.
It’s still breaking my heart.
And it fucking sucks.
Also- I may be a little crazy. Just FYI.