Monday, December 15, 2008
Too Good to Be True
I just knew that if I dared to think for even a second that this might work out, that this positive pregnancy test and good initial scan might lead to a second good ultrasound and -- imagine -- a real live baby, that something would happen to prove that hope foolish. That I would then be left not just with a broken heart, but with a broken heart and vivid images in my head of those moments of hope, doomed to play over and over and over until I feel like I can't breathe.
Today was going to be either one of the best days of my life, or one of the worst. As the ultrasound tech started the scan that would seal the fate of this day and this pregnancy, my heart hammered in my chest and I struggled to catch my breath. I yearned for her to turn the screen toward me, to reassure me that there was a live baby growing in there. But she didn't. I looked at my husband, who raised his eyebrows and looked hopefully at the screen. I thought it was a good sign -- he looked positive -- but I later learned it was because he wasn't sure what he was looking at and thought the sighting of the sac was good news. Nothing -- nothing -- could have prepared me for what I heard next: that there was still a gestational sac, but nothing inside. No heartbeat. No baby. Nothing. Turns out, today was going to be one of the worst days of my life.
I wish there was something someone could do or say to take this searing pain away. Some medication they could give me to let me leave this head and the raw sadness for just a while. I want to box up all of these feelings and send it away somewhere so I never have to know them again. I don't even want to write this post, these words, because someday when it doesn't hurt so much I don't even want to remember how it feels to be me at this particular moment. I'm afraid of muscle memory, afraid this sorrow is leaving some indelible mark on me that might never fully disappear.
I was handled well today -- they did everything right and my amazing doctor said all the right things. She just couldn't say the words I most wanted to hear. No one can. And I literally don't know how to live with this kind of pain.
Today was going to be either one of the best days of my life, or one of the worst. As the ultrasound tech started the scan that would seal the fate of this day and this pregnancy, my heart hammered in my chest and I struggled to catch my breath. I yearned for her to turn the screen toward me, to reassure me that there was a live baby growing in there. But she didn't. I looked at my husband, who raised his eyebrows and looked hopefully at the screen. I thought it was a good sign -- he looked positive -- but I later learned it was because he wasn't sure what he was looking at and thought the sighting of the sac was good news. Nothing -- nothing -- could have prepared me for what I heard next: that there was still a gestational sac, but nothing inside. No heartbeat. No baby. Nothing. Turns out, today was going to be one of the worst days of my life.
I wish there was something someone could do or say to take this searing pain away. Some medication they could give me to let me leave this head and the raw sadness for just a while. I want to box up all of these feelings and send it away somewhere so I never have to know them again. I don't even want to write this post, these words, because someday when it doesn't hurt so much I don't even want to remember how it feels to be me at this particular moment. I'm afraid of muscle memory, afraid this sorrow is leaving some indelible mark on me that might never fully disappear.
I was handled well today -- they did everything right and my amazing doctor said all the right things. She just couldn't say the words I most wanted to hear. No one can. And I literally don't know how to live with this kind of pain.
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22 comments:
I am so incredibly sorry.
i am truly sorry
don't have the words. just so sorry.
Oh, I am so sorry. I got your comment and came over here and read your post, and I am in tears. I wish there was some magic way to take away the hurt.
My heart is broken for you! I am just so so sorry! I wish I knew what else to say...there are just not any words good enough. ((HUGS))
On no, I am so sorry. No one should have to go through this. There are no words to describe what you are going through. Just let it all out. That is what seemed to help me. ((HUGS))
I am so sorry, sweetie. I can imagine the pain and no one should have to go through it.
Here from L&F. I am so sorry for your loss.
I am so sorry.
I have been where you are and it is an awful, terrible place. My heart breaks for you knowing the pain. There is nothing more unfair than going through infertility only to miscarry. It is the worst cruelty.
You are not alone and you will get through this. I promise.
Seeing nothing is unbearable. This post will mean something to you later. For each of us it is a little bit different, but remembering our raw grief is like a tribute to our children.
Thinking of you in this horrible time. ((hugs))
I'm so sorry. My heart is breaking for you. I thought that this would be it for you. Please know that we are all here for you.
You and your husband are in my thoughts and prayers. It is one week ago today that I miscarried and reading your post brought all the pain right back. I believe there is a reason that our babies are not here with us but damn it, someone cut us a break already. Hugs to you.
I am very sorry.
Oh, I am so very sorry. I remember going through what you're talking about and ther are just no words. Please just know that it won't always hurt as much as it does today. Very sorry you're going through this.
Mo
I'm so sorry for your loss
I'm so, so sorry for your loss.
It's all so unfair.
*hugs*
I am so very sorry. I was in your very spot just a few months ago. On the exam table, holding my breath, straining my eyes to see just a flicker of life and . . . nothing. Just an empty sac.
There are so many things about infertility that suck, but the "You're pregnant! Wait, no you're not!" is the worst. Is the mind-fuck really necessary? (Excuse my language)
I am thinking of you during this horrific time and wishing you strength and peace.
So very sorry. I know exactly what you mean about the thin line dividing the best and worst day. With IF there are far too many of those days.
I know there is nothing anyone can do or say to make this easier or feel better, but please know that you are in my thoughts. I am so sorry.
I'm so very sorry.
Many hugs and much love.
I'm so sorry. I've been exactly where you are several times. You describe it well. I wish there was something that could take the pain away. (((Hugs)))
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