when I got my blood tests, it was confirmed. We’re having a baby. I sit and absently rub my stomach as Toby watches with rapt attention. His face is glowing more than mine. He’s high on this feeling, and to be honest, so am I. We sit together, hand in hand, and wait to be called in. I’m barely showing, my bump is like one you get from bloating after eating one-too-many tacos. But God, does it feel like perfection.
I never thought this would be us, but I couldn’t be happier. Seeing the elation on my husband’s face as he rubs my stomach every night, talking to it and kissing it, makes me cry.
Stupid hormones.
He’s never seemed happier, and when we make love, it’s fiercer, more passionate, driving us both wild. But what I can’t get over? The way he looks at me as if I’m his queen.
“Mrs. Hayes?” the nurse calls out, making my heart race. This is it. The moment we’ve been waiting for. We head to a scale, and I’m being weighed. Then she’s settling us into a room and taking my vitals.
“All seems good,” she says with a grin. “The doctor will be right in.”
“I can’t believe this is happening, Sous,” Toby chimes, his eyes full of endearing emotions.
“I know,” I cry, the sentiment hitting me fiercely. He kisses me then, holding my jaw and face, making sure I feel every ounce of love he’s offering.
“You’re so fucking stunning, Joey. So goddamn perfect and breathtaking. Thank you for making me the happiest man.” He kisses me again, harder, longer, and as I’m about to straddle his lap, the doctor comes in and clears her throat.
“Hello,” she chirps, her cheeks a little rosy.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize with heat flaming every inch of me.
“It’s quite alright,” she muses. She’s a small thing with black hair pulled back in a ponytail, scrubs, and a stethoscope around her neck. She’s dainty and cute. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
She pats the table for me to lie back on, grabs the gel and a little white monitor. Rubbing the probe on my stomach, you can hear the whooshing of the insides of my body. She moves it around and again and again. I’m looking at the little black screen, not knowing what to look for. From what I’ve read in books and have watched in movies, this isn’t how I recall any of the descriptions.
After several seconds, she turns off the machine, wipes my stomach, and before the words leave her lips, I already know what’s wrong.
“The baby is no longer viable.” The words hit me like a train, and my stomach hurts with realization. No. This can’t be happening. This was our little miracle. Our little baby. The Gumby we were going to love endlessly.
Tears prick my eyes, and I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Panic sets in, making me nauseous. The realization of me not being strong enough for our baby overwhelms me, and I’m a mess. As I cry, the doctor talks to Toby, and as he comes over and tries to soothe me, I scream. The pain hurts. It’s deep and visceral. It’s damning and unfair. It hurts and hurts and hurts some more. It stabs at me like a knife, making sure I feel every goddamn puncture, going deeper and deeper. It’s not fair, this life. It took my little Gumby; I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t home it. Take care of it. I’m not a good mom. I killed my baby.
My stomach sinks, and I’m shaking all over. Before I can make it off the table, I puke. Anxiety and hatred lace my every breath.
I cry myself into exhaustion until I eventually pass out. When I wake up, I’m naked and in the bath as my husband rubs soothing touches across my body. He holds me lovingly. He warms me. But how is he not angry?
I killed our baby. I ruined our chance. All because I hated my father and had to go to France. I’m such a selfish lech. I’ve ruined everything, and now, we’re paying the price for it.
I cry more as he washes my sins away, trying to baptize me into a new light, a clearer one. The anger rides me, tells me it’s all fake. We don’t get to have any happiness. I’ve ruined it for us, ruined our lives, killed our baby.
He doesn’t stop consoling me, even after he’s washed me and dried me. He carries me bridal style to