It was a week ago today that we found out the baby was dead. A lot can change in a week. Right now we should be 11 weeks. The baby should be the size of a lime. We should be happy. But instead my baby is dead. It’s body is at a lab somewhere so “they” can determine if there’s anything to change for “next time.”
I don’t even know if there’s going to be a next time. I can’t fathom the thought of going through life empty and alone like this. I can’t imagine not being a mother. But, honestly, I don’t think I can survive this again. I’m not sure how I’ll survive this time. Putting one foot in front of the other takes too much effort right now. Speaking to anyone other than my mom or G is difficult. So, why would I volunteer for this again.
And why the fuck did my team let me get so damn hopeful. I was scared when the baby was small for age, but “it’s OK, not all babies measure spot on” or “we just got your ov date off a little, everything looks great” or “perfect heartbeat.” If everything was so goddamned perfect why the fuck is my baby dead?!?!? Wouldn’t it have been easier to say “Well, I’m a little concerned about the size” if for no other reason than to manage my expectations?
I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m hyperventilating just thinking about having to go back to work on Tuesday. This is fair, it isn’t right and I can’t do it.