Realization

I remember being scared to say anything – I think I was actually holding my breath.  The three of us (me, doctor, nurse) were – I was scared to move.  His face kept searching the screen, the doctor who 10 years earlier had brought my son screaming into this world, had encouraged me to reach down and pull him out, and placed him on my chest.  His eyes kept scanning the image, and I started to get that horrendous feeling in the pit of my stomach.  When I finally spoke, it just squeaked out – “please just tell me she’s okay.”  And there was no answer.  I hoped, I prayed, I pleaded, that he was still searching, that he just hadn’t found her yet – and I kept repeating that phrase, getting louder and more frantic with each word.  I looked to the nurse, who I know now was doing everything she could to keep it together while holding my hand.  After about the 10^th time, he said the words that would forever change our lives, our futures, and our family – “Joy-Beth, I wish I knew what to say…” 

               
The next 30 minutes were a blur, but pieces come back to me at odd times.  I screamed, I cried, I called out to a God I hadn’t prayed to in years.  I somehow choked out my husband’s phone number to the nurse who called and told him to come now.  (Apparently he sprinted out of the building and nearly tackled someone in the process).  Another nurse was either called or heard me and came in to cry with us.  At some point I think they were worried that I was going into shock, because I ended up with a cold, wet towel wrapped around my neck and forehead.  I will never forget seeing my foot, in the green crocheted shoes I have now thrown away, shaking back and forth rapidly, so I must have been.  My mother was called, and was able to get there quickly.  I had to tell her she was hurting me from squeezing so tightly.  She left the room, and two nurses sat with my, crying with me and holding my hands.  Then Matt arrived.

               
They left us alone in the darkened ultrasound room so I could tell him.  He took my hand and stood at my side.  I don’t know how I found a voice, but it came out in a whisper.  “Matt… they couldn’t find her heartbeat on the sonogram… so they did an ultrasound.  They don’t know what happened but… she’s gone.”  And my husband hit the floor, his head in my lap.  I had never seen him cry until that moment, another first robbed from me – he was supposed to cry with joy when our first child was born, not in anguish over the fact that he would never meet her now.

                
 The first thing he said was that he loved me.  We just held each other and cried.  At some point we went down the hall to the doctor’s office and discussed what would happen next.  Once the initial shock had subsided somewhat I became almost numb – it was like I was floating through the world, just letting things happen instead of being an active participant.  It was probably the only thing that allowed me to make rational decisions.  The doctor called the hospital and informed them we would be coming (straight from the office, I couldn’t bear the thought of going home with my deceased baby inside of me).  Our car was already packed with her diaper bag and my overnight bag, so Matt drove us right to the hospital.  The car ride was spent in silence, except for my call to Parker’s dad to let him know I wouldn’t be able to pick him up the next day.