Disclaimer: The content of this blog may contain graphic details, personal anecdotes, or sensitive topics that some readers may find uncomfortable or triggering. Please proceed with caution if you feel like you are in an emotional place with your own story. Reader discretion is advised.
The ultrasound room was dimly lit, the only sound the soft hum of the machine and the rustling of paper as I shifted on the exam table. My hands rested on my swollen belly, the space where life had once thrived—where tiny feet had kicked, and hiccups had fluttered.
I was at Maternal Fetal Medicine, monitoring my daughter, who had been diagnosed with an omphalocele caused by a suspected environmental factor. The doctors had reassured us that it wasn’t life-threatening, though it might require several medical procedures in her first year. We allowed ourselves to dream of her future, to believe she would thrive.
The ultrasound technician placed the probe on my belly. Her expression shifted—quiet, unreadable. She coughed and excused herself, murmuring something about needing water.
I had been through so many ultrasounds by this point, and I knew the screen well. The rhythmic flicker of a heartbeat should have been there. But it wasn’t. A stillness had replaced it. My breath caught in my throat, my hands trembling as they rested on my stomach.
Minutes stretched endlessly before the tech returned, now accompanied by my doctor. Her face was solemn. In that instant, I knew.
She took the probe, gliding it over my belly, back and forth. A final search, a desperate hope. Then, with a voice heavy with sorrow, she said the words that would fracture my world:
“I’m so sorry. There is no heartbeat.”
No heartbeat.
The words reverberated in my mind, disjointed and surreal. My body went numb as my hands instinctively cradled my belly, desperate to feel movement that would never come again.
A sound escaped me—a guttural, raw wail that I couldn’t contain. In that moment, I was unmoored, adrift in a grief too vast to comprehend.
The world inside that room moved forward—murmured voices, a gentle hand on my shoulder—but I was frozen, suspended between two realities. The before—where I carried life. The after—where I carried only loss.
Discussions of options, next steps, and medical procedures blurred together. All I could grasp was that I had walked into this office with a child nestled safely inside me, and I would leave it empty.
The only thought that broke through my haze was to call my husband. The words tumbled out, raw and broken: "She is gone." I could say nothing more. My doctor took the phone and spoke to him, explaining what my shattered heart could not.
I sat there, replaying those three words in my mind—no heartbeat, no heartbeat, no heartbeat. The doctor asked if I had support with me. My mother was in the lobby. My husband had attended every appointment until this one. We had just had a reassuring visit four days prior, so I told him he didn’t need to come.
Now, all I needed was him.
I stood up to leave the room, but my legs gave out beneath me, and I collapsed in the hallway, sobbing. My doctor rushed to find my mother, gently explaining what had happened. The words felt foreign, impossible, like they belonged to someone else.
All I could think was: I am a walking coffin.
I needed to get out of that office and never return. My mother asked what I needed. "My husband," I whispered. She offered to drive, but I refused. I needed to feel in control of something—so I drove.
The drive to his office was a blur. My mind detached, my body on autopilot. Yet, my hands gripped the steering wheel, desperate to anchor myself to reality.
When I arrived, my husband was already outside. I met him at his office downtown, stumbling toward him. The moment I reached him, I collapsed into his arms and wept. He held me up as sobs wracked my body, grief overtaking every ounce of me.
The hours that followed were a haze of unbearable tasks—packing a hospital bag for a birth that would end in loss, making calls no parent should have to make. Messages of support poured in, though no words could touch the enormity of what we were facing.
The world outside continued as if nothing had changed—cars moved, people laughed, the sun set and rose again. But I was forever altered. Life had been split in two: the time before she was gone, and the time after.
For those navigating pregnancy and infant loss, you are not alone. The weight of grief is immense, but support is available. Healing is not about forgetting—it is about finding ways to honor your baby while also allowing yourself to move forward with love and intention.
Resources for Coping with Loss:
Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep (nilmdts.org) - Provides remembrance photography for families experiencing infant loss.
March of Dimes (marchofdimes.org) - Offers resources and support for families affected by pregnancy and infant loss.
Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support (nationalshare.org) - Provides grief resources, online support groups, and local chapter connections.
Stillbirth Foundation (stillbirthfoundation.org) - Offers education and support services for parents navigating stillbirth.
The Compassionate Friends (compassionatefriends.org) - Supports families after the loss of a child of any age.
Postpartum Support International (PSI) (postpartum.net) - Provides mental health support for parents experiencing pregnancy-related trauma and loss.
If you or someone you know is experiencing pregnancy loss, reach out. Grief is not meant to be carried alone.
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