While I do think about the miscarriage — of the baby we lost — every day, I’m mostly no longer sad about it. Well, not actively sad about it, anyway. But today I felt sad.
I went in for my annual exam today, and as I sat down in the lab chair for the blood pressure check (114/70, by the way; not great, but not bad), it took me right back to early summer, when I had to go sit in that chair week after week for blood draws to make sure the pregnancy hormone in my system decreased accordingly. (And let me tell you, it feels pretty unjust to suffer early pregnancy symptoms — heartburn, nausea, exhaustion — even after your pregnancy has ended.)
In the room catty corner to me, I could see a pregnant woman settling into the recliner by the Doppler machine. She put her feet up and flipped open a People magazine, waiting for the doctor or tech to come in and listen to her baby’s heartbeat. Whoosh whoosh whoosh.
Today it feels unfair.
Because of my faith, I do believe that the baby we conceived, the life that began within me, is not simply just gone. In the early days after, I dreamt about her a lot, and one night, she told me her name. Did she tell me, or did God whisper it in my ear, I don’t know. But I know it didn’t come from me, as her name is not one that was ever on any kind of list, nor is it the name of a family member or a friend’s child. I call her by name in my heart. I mouth it silently and hear it in my mind.
Some day I’ll meet her, the daughter I never got to see or touch. And I’ll say her name out loud.
