I Should Have Listened a Little Longer...


"See there he is!" my husband says pointing to the large monitor next to me. I can hear the glee and relief in his voice. I pause for a moment, looking at the ultrasound monitor while my legs continue to shake as they have been since before I put them in the stirrups.


I don’t yet have the heart to tell him, to shatter his world, so I let him live in ignorance for a few more moments. I take a deep breath and slowly as the tears begin to form in the corners of my eyes I manage a whisper “yes but there’s no heartbeat.”


I look over to the ultrasound tech longing for her to give me another result. A different answer. One that states I don’t know what I’m talking about because I do not have any formal training in medical sonography. I silently plead for her to tell me that there is in fact a heartbeat.


But all she does is look back at me blankly. Our teary eyes meet as she puts one hand on my still bent leg to comfort me and says “I’m so sorry.”


As she takes her last few measurements before taking the probe out I am overcome by clashing emotions. The sense of loss I feel is unbearable but yet at the same time I feel validated.


I had awoken the morning before to dark brown blood and instantly feared the worst. Despite my husband’s words of positivity and my friends’ upbeat texts I knew the truth. And the truth was I had known something was wrong long before this.


Due to my last miscarriage, my doctor had let me have weekly ultrasounds to help calm me and I had eagerly accepted. After hearing a strong heartbeat two weeks in a row I felt like I just needed to trust the process, trust myself, trust a higher power, so I stopped going.


And it was just after I stopped going that I started to feel disconnected from my pregnancy. I had started to become angry for no reason. My pregnancy symptoms had started to subside but it was time for the placenta to take over, so symptoms are supposed to ease off.


I felt like such a crazy person that I started stalking Dr. Google and asking friends that had been pregnant if they had shared a similar experience. All reassured me that everything was fine and I had nothing to worry about.


I guess we didn’t share the same experience after all.


So here it was, my proof. My proof that I wasn’t crazy, irrational or overreacting. I was a mother who instinctively knew something was wrong with her child.


The proof that meant my heart would shatter not once but twice with miscarriage within the same pregnancy. And all I could think to myself was

“I should have listened to your heartbeat a little longer the last time I saw you.”

For it was the most beautiful song I have ever heard.

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