I was in the shower this morning when I remembered the date: April 16. Today, one year ago, I learned that our first pregnancy had ended while we were on vacation. I had gone to Dr. Uterus’ office looking forward to seeing how much the little one had grown, hearing the heartbeat again – and maybe, just maybe, being released from his care and into the hands of an OB for the rest of the journey.
Instead, I got a stab of panic when he found that the baby was measuring small for the time frame. It was supposed to be my 11-week check-up and the baby was measuring at 9w2d. Then, I got abject terror when he couldn’t find a heartbeat. Then, I got numbness when he said those two little words: “I’m sorry.” It was a terrible, terrible day.
I know that today is not that day, but even a year hasn’t dimmed the memory, the pain or the heartache. It is all still there, just under the surface.