It was a hot July day, 12 ½ years ago, right before the Fourth of July. I was eager to spend the weekend with my little boy and husband.But at that moment, I was in a doctor’s office, laying in a dark room with a giant screen on the wall as the doctor maneuvered an ultrasound machine to scan my abdomen.
On the screen, the doctor and I both saw what was evident at the same time. She looked at me and shook her head and said, “I’m so sorry, but there is no heartbeat.”
I took a deep breath and said, “Yes, I can see that.” It was the second time in 12 months that we had tried to have another child, and once again, there was going to be no baby.
I’ll never forget leaving that office, and stumbling out into the blinding sunshine, not really sure what to do with my grief and confusion. It was one of the saddest moments of my life,
not because of the loss of the pregnancy, because clearly it wasn’t viable, and I’ve always been practical that way. It was because I felt so lost and confused. I didn’t know what to do with all of the love and excitement that had been alive just a few moments before.
