Grief rolls in waves of suffocating sadness that take over every bright spot in your mind.

New year, new vibes was the motto for 2019 —at least for Husband and me, whom eagery approached this “next chapter” with full optimism. Things were softly trickling into place and we‘d finally neared the finish line. We held hands as we walked into my RE’s office to finalize the exhaustive process that we started years before. We had opened these two doors together countless times over the last year, beginning with the first visit when we were afraid to even have baseline expectations.

It was one year after my first round of IVF, which yielded substandard results. We wanted to go to the best, so we chose to go with Austin Fertility Institute. The physician that spearheaded that round —the owner of the clinic— assessed our goals, my physical attributes (age, endometriosis history, etc,) and came up with what he believed to be the best course of action moving forward. I found Dr. M to be arrogant, but assumed that he must be serious. He came across as intelligent and sharp, with a demeanor that read to us as a person with genuine interest in his line of work. He seemed to prioritize being a physician over a businessman. That was incredibly important to me, as I had already started to feel subhuman when it came to my experience with gynecological care in this state. The last thing that I wanted was to be punted to the next after I became either complicated or unprofitable. I later learned from others who’ve had interactions with Dr. M., former staff and patients alike, that he had a reputation for being condescending and ego-driven (allegedly, of course). In most other cases, I’d immediately be turned off by such behavior and wouldn’t want to engage in many transactions moving forward; but, in this particular situation, I chose to not care. We weren’t paying him to be our friend and tell us that we’re wonderful, we were paying him to get a fucking job done — one that he was confident enough in his abilities to take on.

Moments after Dr. M finished my first egg retrieval, on that cold early February morning in 2018, he told us that he didn’t believe biological children were in the cards for us. He sat up straight in his chair, in a faded Chicago Cubs cap and a weighty pair of boots with beautifully-detailed stitching and leatherwork that’s synonymous with Lucchese. Across from him sat Husband, to whom Dr. M explained this sentiment, but shaped in a way that seemingly benefitted us. It seemed he quit on us before we even had concrete results and that was when I realized that I was weighing down his “success rate”. Ahhh, so he was a businessman first. I was no longer even likely profitable but, rather than punt me to the next clinic and potentially let them profit, he told us that he didn’t think proceeding with IVF would be a sound financial decision. His premature conclusion was that, since my egg count and quality were low, then so were our chances to see this to fruition. This wasn’t just a bold assumption about our finances, it was him saying that this wasn’t worth his time or efforts. It was clear that our transactional relationship was no longer mutually-beneficial and he wanted out. I was a bit relieved, as I found him to be over-confident and dismissive. Husband was gutted, though he didn’t mention this part until very recently. Months later, we walked into a second clinic in Austin, Texas Fertility Center, truly believing Dr. M –that our odds were closer to none. We met with Dr. H, a powerhouse in a tiny frame. She reassured us that it wasn’t a wash and began to chart our goals. I remember walking out of those doors feeling more optimistic and motivated than I had in years. We completed two more rounds under her care, fueled by an updated cocktail of meds and her optimism. Two successful egg retrievals and four embryos later, that little powerhouse in heels, Dr. Lisa Hansard, completed for us the process that Dr. Kenneth Mogadham was unable to achieve. To be perfectly honest, I don’t believe Dr. M was nearly as confident in his abilities as he wanted us (or maybe himself) to believe. I mean, he decided to play off his exit as looking out for our financial interests, rather than even consider a simple alternative option, such as switching up meds. Silly man… with bangs, no less. 🤦🏻‍♀️

Late January, 2019— The transfer

The temperature was particularly mild for January. I remember the sunbeams piercing through the warm morning sky and how they appeared extra-iridescent. We were ready to move forward with our lives, which seemed frozen in limbo. On this early Thursday morning, Husband and I walked into Dr. H’s office with full confidence that this embryo transfer was going to be a success. The grueling part was said to be behind us, so we foolishly donned our matching rose-colored glasses and hoped for the best. I mean, what could go wrong? All was ideal when I was rolled into their surgical room to do the damn thing. I had prepared myself by following my meticulous IVF regimen through three rounds, took all of the supplements known to man, attended twice-weekly acupuncture, gave up my beloved coffee, completed three egg retrievals, and consumed so many pineapples that I’m still legit traumatized. It was two months earlier that Dr. H had performed an open myomectomy to remove recurring fibroids from my uterus. “Tidying it up!”, as she put it, was the last step to ensuring an ideal outcome. This was my second, and much less invasive, myomectomy to remove the fibroids that continued to grow both inside, and within the lining of, my uterus. Since a previous physician had gone in the old-fashioned way, abdominally, Dr. H reopened the same incision for this procedure. She was well-informed of my endometriosis and adenomyosis, so we opted for this extra step to assure ourselves that we stacked every card in our favor. This was to be the last procedure to get me all the way together before attempting to carry a baby.

Valentine’s Day— The little embryo that could

I left Dr. H’s office around 8:00am after completing the final post-transfer bloodwork. I rushed back home so I could finally take the pregnancy test that had been sitting unopened since the embryo transfer. When a second line began to appear, my heart sank into my gut. I knew it. After taking a few seconds to process, Husband and I proceeded to hop around our living room in a hug-like situation that surprisingly didn’t topple us to the ground. A few hours after, he and I were having decaf lattes at Hank’s when I received the call from her office to confirm —Holy crap, it worked! We were legitimately overwhelmed with excitement and gratitude.

We did it! Here comes the little embryo that could.

A sunny Wednesday in late May —

I was in my sewing studio while making a dress for Baby S, as I wondered what type of sunnies to pair with it. Oh I absolutely was going to be that mom –the cringiest, matchy-est, always doing the most. I finished its accompanying pair of bloomers and was in the process of tying up loose ends (literally) when I took a break to have lunch with Husband.

A note: From this point forward, I’ll be sprinkling in graphic language to describe (some) things, so think about it a bit. If baby loss is something that’s upsetting to you (understandably), maybe continue if you’re in a safer space to potentially lose your shit. I say this because today I realized that five years have passed, but a sense of heaviness lingers.

I went to the restroom before we ate and it was there that I felt a sudden sensation. What the hell was that? That’s when I realized the gush wasn’t urine –it was my water actively breaking. That very moment replayed in my mind for weeks after at home, throughout EMDR therapy, and continues to pop up occasionally. It was an incredibly surreal experience, standing there knowing that something was horribly wrong inside of my body. I realized the gravity of the situation—I was about to lose this pregnancy, eighteen weeks in. I knew for certain what was about to unfold because my sister had been in a nearly-identical situation less than one year prior. With the help of machines and an assiduous team of nurses and physicians at Yale Medical, Baby E breathed a few short breaths outside of Sister’s body. Without the formation of lungs at merely twenty-two weeks, she couldn’t feasibly survive. Sister and her husband had to make a decision on when to pull the plug on the machines literally breathing life into this tiny, incredible, human being. The entire team in the NICU that day, in addition to her treating physicians, and their colleagues as well, expressed deep condolences to Sister. I’m grateful that she was able to experience that much-needed source of support during arguably the most vulnerable time in one’s life.

On the day that I lost my daughter, I was living in Texas and, though our stories essentially define synchronicity, our experiences with treatment and care (both immediate and after) were vastly different.

Eight months earlier, on an overcast Wednesday in September, 2018— Connecticut

Sister (older by less than two years) had been advised to stay on a “modified bed rest” after her last checkup. It appeared her cervix had dropped far earlier than is ideal. The plan was to work from home until after Baby E was born. In her favorite Anthropologie dress, a burnt-orange midi with allover poppy print, she slowly walked into her office to grab files. While leaving, she dropped into the restroom and was washing her hands when she suddenly felt fluid casually running down her leg. She didn’t immediately process what was occurring because, though it was strange, she expected weird shit since this pregnancy had already been a rollercoaster. Mom had driven her and was waiting outside. “I think my water’s breaking” is all Sister was able to say while opening the door, when she suddenly felt the gush. Mom’s black leather seats were slowly beginning to soak and they immediately started computing the route to her physician’s hospital. Our family was in complete disbelief for the entirety of her two-week NICU stay, where she was being monitored while on full bed rest. We all allowed our emotions take the wheel as we counted down the days until viability. We willfully ignored logic and set up basecamp in a state of reverie. After the loss, they coped, grieved, and slowly started to pick up what pieces remained, albeit scattered. Hope, well, that became a thing of the past. I know for certain that she lost a part of her soul in the process.

Four months and two days later, it was Valentine’s Day, 2019 —the day my pregnancy was confirmed (as mentioned above). Husband and I didn’t know the sex of our embryos until we had to, which was for the NIPT test at fourteen weeks. The both of us were indifferent about the sex because we were thrilled to even be in the position that we were in. The privilege to pay out of pocket for IVF alone absolutely isn’t lost upon us. Or the fact that we even had the luxury of creating and storing embryos, something unattainable for so many. We were grateful to be in our position and honestly felt guilty for even considering to choose something like that. I now know that this belief was naive because family planning is complex and personal, but at the time I didn’t want to ask for too much. Given that we would see the sex in the results, we decided to make it a thing —something small for the two of us. Sister logged in for me and she packaged a simple, yet truly meaningful surprise for Husband and me to open for our own private “reveal”. I had wanted to go somewhere completely natural, that had been there long before us and will hopefully remain long after us. I’ve always been married to the idea of having the ocean nearby as this new life was starting to take form, so we started brainstorming of where we could go outside of Texas. A year earlier, shortly after our failed round of IVF, a very close cousin and I drove down the California coast from San Francisco to Big Sur. As we explored our surroundings, I found myself standing by a real life sequoia tree. I’d never seen such a majestic object, let alone a living being. So when we decided to make this “reveal” a thing, the idea of being surrounded by such trees felt right. I became captivated in finding the best photographer to capture the moment when we opened up the tiny box that Sister had sealed for us.

Late April — Into the woods

For the second time this year, I noticed vivid, yet iridescent beams of bright morning sunlight piercing a nearly-turquoise sky. This time was even more warm and bright, since we had arrived in our ideal location —California. In the middle of the woods, along the central coast, the two of us stood under a few-hundred-years-old tree that had been hollowed out by fire. It was in that space that we opened the small package. Wait, it’s …pink? What the Hell? Does that mean..? Yes, it did. We were having a girl.

I don’t think we were out of the woods, literally and figuratively, before we started calling our families because we both were so excited.

We continued our adventure along the coast from Santa Cruz up through Oregon, where we pulled over often to admire more majestic trees and random beaches along the way. We were on cloud nine and my mind was filled with ideas, questions, and plans. In my heart, I had a deep-rooted belief that we were having a son. It’s difficult to put into words exactly how I felt this, but I knew our current (and only) child, a son born via surrogate years after this experience, was going to be in our lives. I had felt his spirit since before he was a clump of living cells, so anything indicating otherwise seemed utterly incomprehensible.

Imagine the complete sense of surprise that I found myself drowning in when we found out about this daughter I had growing inside of me. In hindsight, I realize a large part of my immediate apprehension to accept this news was me trying to protect myself, because not only did I feel my future son’s energy, (truly cannot explain it in words), but also because this felt too good to be true. There’s no way. I definitely carried the weight of that unease for a few days on this trip, until a random moment that sprouted a sense of joy that I hand’t allowed myself to yet experience. Until this point, I was constantly on lookout for when the ball was going to drop, having grown up in a household where my caretakers operated in total dysfunction. So this pivotal moment that instantly changed my mindset from apprehension to enthusiasm was… at a cheese factory! We stopped at the Tillamook factory in Oregon for ice-cream and decided to take a tour of the place so we could try all the cheeses. During this tour, there was a younger girl enjoying her ice cream with her father while hopping around like an adorable little fairy. My eyes were immediately drawn in to her colorful knit tights and rainboots combo (it was a sunny day). Oh my God, I finally get to have my own. She’ll have SO MANY tights! Freaking tights, man, it’s all it took. Days later when we arrived in Portland, guess who was up and down Mississippi Ave. in search for mini tights? 🙋🏻‍♀️ I bought a journal to start writing my notes to her, though my anxiety led me to think that I’d jinx it. I was beginning to fill with fears. Oh shit, does this make me a role model? Me?? It felt as if Husband and I had transported into our own little world that was centered around Baby S and what we wanted our lives to look like upon her arrival. We weren’t in the present, but woke up every day to live for the near, almost-tangible, future. This was a first for the both of us whom, up until this point, had lived by a tomorrow may not even come mentality. Suddenly we were planning with excitement and a sense of pure, untarnished joy for our future. We were so ready for her to join us.

May —galloping along like a healthy, growing pony

The moments after I realized that my water broke are crystalized in my mind. I would like to someday replace these vivid memories with ones less painful, but I accept that they’ll remain until they fully serve their purpose in my life. I recall feeling the eerie sense of calmness that comes over me in situations where it’s “normal” to panic. I casually instructed Husband to call my OBGYN’s office to fill them in, and then began searching for my toothbrush charger to pack in a hospital bag, while also making a mental to-do list before leaving the house. It was go-time and we couldn’t waste our resources on crying. In hindsight, it was me desperately grasping at straws in an effort to feign the slightest semblance of control. Having experience, given Sister’s recent loss, I knew that this show was about to abruptly end. There you go again, you fucking fool, letting your guard down. I knew it. I hate that my mind went there, but it is what it is. Thankfully this God-awful internal dialog was quickly followed by more logical, pertinent questions, Will I be able to see her? Has she formed any more since my checkup two days ago? Is there ANY way she can survive? I then reassured myself, as well as Sister, whose nervousness could be felt through the phone, that I still somehow trusted my physician.

She’ll help us, let’s not freak out just yet. She has just as much invested in this as we do.

I began to feel a sense of anxiousness when we called my OBGYN, Dr. L,’s office to tell them I was going to the hospital. She was recommended by Dr. H when the time had come to transfer my care to a “regular” OBGYN once the fertility physician’s job was essentially done. The person whom answered immediately told us to head directly to their office and kept reiterating that it was office protocol. We assumed that it expedited the admitting process for the hospital or that all of this could somehow be fixed once in her hands. We hadn’t realized how overworked Dr. L was, or that she didn’t have the luxury of simply walking across the street to the hospital in such an instance. Husband and I assumed this was the best bet, so we listened and proceeded to drive to her office. We walked into the waiting room to find a long line of other women queued up to be checked in. When husband rushed to the front to let them know Dr. L was expecting us, the impassive staff member replied that we had to wait because she was with a patient, although aware of our circumstance. I was still in a state of shock because, not only did I feel the need to police Husband’s raw emotions and tell him to take it easy and see how this plays out, I also quietly accepted this bullshit as anything than a complete lack of regard of this baby or me. I’m surprised that I didn’t hold up the entire line and demand that I see someone immediately or pull some Wild West shit like live-streaming this utter lack of basic humanity. We waited for about ten minutes until I was called. As I sprung up from my seat, the polyvinyl covering was saturated with what we thought was the last of my amniotic fluids. I believe this was the moment that I started to ween off of autopilot and assimilate back to reality.

Why the fuck is it taking this long?

We waited again in the exam room until Dr. L entered, appearing stressed and vacant (her usual brand). She didn’t exhibit any sense of urgency. I can respect that and see where having such a demeanor may prove to be beneficial to her and some of her patients, but this was not such an instance. I wasn’t seeking an opinion or validation here, I needed some fucking help. I needed physical intervention and emotional support or some sort of gesture indicating any mutual understanding, but Kimberley Loar (Dr. L), displayed no benevolence for me as a fellow woman. Just three days earlier, she was measuring my little bump and reassuring me that everything was going as ideally as one would want; but, in this moment, her energy and silence could only be interpreted as cold and transactional.

She checked for a heartbeat, and there it was –galloping along like a healthy, growing pony. I hadn’t realized that, by law, she had to perform this sonogram. In this instance, I wanted to hear it and know that Baby S was okay, but I still assumed that I had a choice or a say in the matter. What if someone doesn’t want to see or hear this? Imagine a woman that’s suffered previous losses and is aware of how this will end. What if seeing and hearing a whole-ass sonogram takes her over an edge that she was already walking near? I didn’t realize that was the point and that, by design, Texas’ “Right To Know” Law was created, and enacted, to do just that —create a disconnect between the woman and her present reality, just in case she changes her mind. It’s framed as giving more choice, but how exactly? It’s actually taking one away. Didn’t women already have the choice to see an ultrasound or hear a description if they wanted it? Forcing them to hear it, even if they don’t want or consent to, is removing any other choice. For me, it also clouded my own best judgment to go straight to the hospital which was minutes away from my home. Instead, I blindly followed the directions of my physician, assuming that she had my best interest at heart. I desperately needed physical and emotional support from Dr. Loar and her staff at Renaissance Women’s Group, and instead they left me to drown so they could cover their own asses, legally.

The idea in itself is undermining and obnoxious, but we accept it since we live here, right? I know that I can’t recall how I processed anything that was said after then, because hearing all of that left me feeling completely decentralized. The heartbeat was there, and now we had auditory proof that she was still alive –anything said beyond that was merely noise. I suppose this is the same logic that drives so many to vote against the interest of women (“best interest” is currently a pipe dream), including their own daughters and others like myself. The “heartbeat is there”, so that means life, right? RIGHT? Who truly cares if the baby will be able to breathe, or if she has a functioning brain or slowly dying inside of the mother? I wish we lived in a world where more people did care about this stuff, like basic humanity. After the final gush, right on her exam table, Dr. L played along and confirmed that my water did indeed break. She “called me in” at the hospital across the street. I guess this means she had reached her state-mandated timeframe for the sonogram and had cleared all the legal bases. Good for her, obedient and well-trained. Blessed be. Her hands, albeit still tied, seemed to loosen a bit and now she could pretend to have any sort of authority, or even say, in how to perform her job. We were now over an hour after leaving our (then) house, which, again, was located minutes away from said hospital.

Husband held my hand tightly as we walked out through a waiting room filled with women in various stages of pregnancy. The few-yard walk felt like a mile and everything moved in slow motion, somehow detached from me. This can’t be real, can it? We went down the elevator and passed the office of our future pediatrician before reaching the doors. Once outside, we found ourselves standing in front of Dr. M’s office —full freaking circle. All of these factors combined felt overwhelming to say the least. We caught a lot of strays that day, that’s for sure. We maintained our grip while we crossed the street to check into the maternity unit, as the strength of his fingers varied with bursts of shock. We walked slowly and discussed our next steps, as if we had a say. We decided together that a D&C procedure is what we wanted. “I want to be knocked out, and then wake up and go home. I don’t want to be there.” It had been less than a year since the trauma in the NICU at Yale, when we all struggled to process Sister’s loss. I wanted none of that. Also, I previously had two open surgeries on my uterus, invasive procedures to prepare for said surgeries, and partook in all of the physical festivities required for three rounds of IVF. This was the point where I started to think, This is too much, I can’t do this. I don’t want anyone to touch me. Once admitted and in a room, we were again shocked at the lack of urgency, compassion, or care. All we wanted was to hear her heartbeat so we could not only ensure that she was still with us, but also connect with her one last time. This time we had to wait until a machine became available, hours later. Once they confirm it, certainly everyone here will try to somehow intervene, right? The tending nurse, though kind and supportive, confirmed that there was no chance of survival without amniotic fluid at this stage. Baby S’s lungs and brain hadn’t yet developed, so viability wasn’t possible.

One of many lessons derived from this experience is that, while most larger cities in Texas are relatively progressive (for their own reasons), we were completely disillusioned in our shared belief that Austin was the same as New York or, dare I say, California. It’s long been touted as a place where anyone can feel heard, essentially a geographical safe space, that’s also unsurprisingly the most educated city in Texas. With this came a false sense of security, the worst type of delusion to indulge in. We let our guard down and allowed ourselves to feel that we had a semblance of control if, God forbid, the worst-case scenario played out. So on that evening, when we found ourselves in this exact scenario, I felt relatively safe physically. That lasted maybe twenty minutes, as the tone in that room shifted immediately after we mentioned what we wanted to happen next.

We’ve decided that… _{-Silly us}

We experienced that day what my friends and family refer to whenever they say, “Yeah, but it’s still Texas.” I always hated hearing that because Austin is an awesome city with a truly special energy; but in these moments I realize that this is what they were referring to. This sentiment had previously been willfully overlooked because I’d become defensive about people blindly pairing this city with cliche (and dated) Texas stereotypes, but at the end of the day, they’re right. It is still Texas, where power-trips are not only accepted, but celebrated. The culture is incredibly toxic and also suffocating. This was the moment when Husband, a life-long Texan, began to realize that we had become far too comfortable in our delusion of safety here.

I can’t recall the name of the tending physician that evening, but I can still visualize her standing by the ultrasound machine as she informed us that we actually couldn’t just be rolled back in for a D&C, as we so foolishly assumed. It turned out that, in Texas, performing this procedure (to remove the fetus), regardless if the baby has died in the womb, wasn’t allowed until twenty-four hours after check-in. What do you mean not allowed? Is that fucking legal? Yes, yes it was (and still is) legal. In my case, she was alive and galloping along without fluids. So what does this mean? I just sit here and wait until she dies on her own? INSIDE OF ME? What about infection? It was only one week ago that I felt her first, and only, kicks and now… Will she suffer? Will I feel her struggle? Her heart continued to gallop until the cocktail of meds that I was given began to infiltrate my system and get me to sleep. Even through my Xanax, Zoloft, and pain-med-induced haze, I couldn’t stop thinking of how badly we wanted to hear her initial heartbeat. I remember the wait until that checkup felt like the longest part of the pregnancy. Husband recorded my reaction during that appointment and we sent it to my MIL immediately. Seconds later, she called me crying happy tears, along with my late-FIL. “It’s a girl. I just know it. I can just see her, she’s going to be so payari and, like you, have motiyan akhan!”. As soon as I’d doze off, I’d jolt myself awake, just in case this was some sort of mistake. I’m unsure how Husband got through the night, as he parked himself right next to me from the moment we entered the room. I was given drugs, but he was expected to tune out the consistent sound of the heartbeat monitor carrying over from the room next door or the newborns being carted around in the hallway. It was years later when he told me that, immmediately following every single jolt, I asked him the same question, “Is she gone?”. Each time he replied yes, and then I’d cry until I drifted back into sleep. I had no idea any of this had occurred, a real-life nightmare that he couldn’t escape from. He very recently told me there was apparently a symbol next to my room number, written alongside my last name, indicating that this wasn’t a live birth. Even for him, a man with incredible resilience and a deeply-integrated sense of optimism, this was too much.

I awoke the next morning to learn that the galloping did eventually came to a stop. She was gone. Since twenty-four hours still hadn’t passed, I was denied my request for an immediate D&C to remove the now-dead fetus from my body. Immediate care needed for MY body was determined by a religion and a state, both of which I absolutely do not care for. I cannot put into words how unsettling, infuriating, and isolating being in such a situation can make a person feel. Cruel would be close, but it still seems mild here. I couldn’t grapple with this new reality, that she was really dead. I wanted to go home, I wanted them to remove this body from mine. It was about 10:30am when I decided, Fuck it, I’ll push her out. The only smidge of solace that we could find was that we would see her and have validation that she existed. The only other person in the room at the time was one of my closest friends in Texas. She was driving into town that morning from Houston and called to see if I was home, so she could swing by. We met for lunch a week earlier, where she mentioned wanting to throw me a shower. When I told her where I was and what had occurred, she was at the hospital fifteen minutes after. Moments after she arrived, I was given Pitocin because apparently Jesus is cool with induction (totally natural, right?) and labor was induced. Shortly afterwards, Sister, my parents, and in-laws (including husband’s older brother) arrived as well. Everyone in that room was devastated. For my parents to fly in and re-live this again with another daughter was beyond cruel. Both of them, along with Sister, caught standby flights to Austin and took an Uber straight to the hospital. While everyone tried to put on brave faces for me, we all suffered immense heartbreak that day. They were there with us, physically and emotionally, for which we are lucky in that sense. For a while, we sat in silence while avoiding eye contact. I remember looking at everyone individually and hoping that they weren’t thinking what I was: What did we do to deserve this? I started to pinpoint all of my questionable decisions to see if I could connect any dots. “These things sometimes just happen” wasn’t cutting it and I could’t accept this new reality.

Birth-

Up to this point, the treating physician had casually evaded any questions we asked regarding an epidural. “We can consider if it gets really bad.” Contractions had started hours earlier so Sister, a generally diplomatic and mild-mannered attorney, requested to step outside and have a word in the hallway. I assume it was direct, as they returned minutes later with a cart full of supplies being shlepped behind them. The excessive apprehension regarding epidurals was concerning, but what were we to do at that point? We felt helpless and vulnerable, and also like an afterthought since the baby had died anyway. Once the drugs were administered, I was able to breathe a bit as the physical relief was instantaneous. Labor lasted a little over six hours, with the hardest part being the multiple attempts at removing retained placenta. The delivering physician directed me to continue attempting to push it out. We tried intermittently for hours until I officially passed the twenty-four hour mark after admittance. Wonderful, maybe now we can clean it all out. Instantly an option became available to have a D&C and I was rolled back into the area reserved for such procedures. I vividly recall waking up and locking eyes with a woman monitoring the ultrasound machine as another scraped my interiors as if she was vacuuming a seat at a car wash. I remember trying to mouth to her that I could hear, see, and feel everything and to be gentle, but didn’t realize my mouth was covered by a mask. I kept blinking with wide eyes when the look on her face said, “Ohhh shit!” Seconds later, I drifted back into nothingness. It was well past 1:00am when I awoke back in my room, the one with the dead baby disclaimer. Sitting there under a dim light was Husband, blankly looking at me. She’s gone, huh? That’s when all of it started to settle in the ridges of my mind —she was gone.

Husband and I tightly squeezed one another’s hand as we walked into the funeral home to sort out cremation details. It took us some time to get out of the car and step outside. I can’t say how much time, but it felt like at least an hour. We sat there paralyzed, across the street from our first apartment in this city, asking each other if we thought back then that we’d be here, cremating our baby. That was a rough moment. We attempted in vain to shield the emotions in our own ways. Neither of us wanted to lose it, so we refrained from to looking at one another as the saleswoman (I mean let’s be real) said Baby S’s name out loud. I remember when we walked out and just stood there, blankly staring ahead and completely lost because we didn’t know how to proceed. During the actual time of cremation, days later, the funeral home had let us know when and we listened to paath as it happened. My mother was right next to me and MIL was at home, praying with us. I’m not religious, but it felt warm and lovely sending her off in this way, with the soothing prayers of her grieving grandmothers.

For Husband, another punch was mounting up.

I was discharged the following day and sent home. Our car remained parked in the maternity entrance and suddenly I started to wish they would’ve provided a dead baby sticker for my forehead as a buffer for the walk out. There were pregnant women being rolled in and families joyfully entering with fists full of ribbons tied to balloons. There were a few frantic dads, dashing back and forth while trying to figure out how to work a car seat and also grandparents that were ready to burst because they were so freaking excited. Everything is going as planned for everyone, except for us. We felt invisible to the world around us. We were in disbelief on the ride home, as we drove by the various medical buildings that we popped in and out of during the entire IVF process. Our future looked so bright. How the fuck do we process this? My in-laws and Sister headed their separate ways home on the day after we left the hospital. We said our goodbyes outside, without any idea that this would be the last time we’d see Husband’s father alive. It’s a most cherished memory and, if there is any sort of lining (silver’s a stretch), it’s knowing that we all were able to see him one final time. Of course the situation had left us feeling defeated but, in the very last moments that we had with him, all of us were in our most authentic, albeit vulnerable, states and for that, I’m grateful.

Given the circumstance, it’s widely understood that my emotional health would take a hit, but I hadn’t realized what it would do to my body physically. The delivering physician, Dr. U., had performed the D&C at the hospital after the birth. She was overconfident in both her abilities and understanding, a dangerous combination that I’ve seen more often than not of the physicians from whom I’ve sought treatment in this state.

It truly feels like the Wild West out here at times.

I continued to bleed and was told it was normal. At my follow-up appointment, days later, Dr. L casually filled another Xanax ‘script, a new class of drug for me and one I never knew I even needed. In her usual robotic manner, she couldn’t be bothered to spare a word of support for a fellow woman. I left her office hoping to never see her again. Unfortunately, days later, I passed a large clot of mass and continued to bleed. I called Dr. L’s emergency line in a complete sense of panic since I had no idea what was happening to my body. She nonchalantly scheduled a second D&C for the following morning “to be sure”. Mom was still visiting and accompanied us, though in a bit of disbelief that I continued to experience the effects of this over a week out. I was put under the following morning and was told a bunch of bullshit that was worded to make me feel comfortable enough not to raise Hell. All of this occurred simultaneously to us planning the details of our baby’s cremation. Another week had passed and I hadn’t stopped bleeding. I continued to feel anxious, so my therapist recommended EMDR therapy to supplement with my regular talk sessions. Husband and I scheduled sessions independently and, before I was able to attend my first appointment, I passed more clotted tissue. I fucking knew it. I, myself, have grasped to understand this, so I can imagine what you think while reading. This time, Dr. L had a colleague assist with a THIRD D&C procedure because, apparently, the previous two had merely been dress rehearsals. I was put under again and woke up to a deadpan expression with words saying that it was “finally over”. I continued to bleed through July, until it subsided and eventually came to a stop. The lingering and intense lower back pain also eventually stopped, though it lasted longer than expected (about six months). I’ve since had a full hysterectomy and subsequent double oopherectomy (with another physician, of course), but remain curious about whether the job was actually completed. I certainly have my doubts. Even with zero percent chance of pregnancy for me, I can’t say I trust any one physician in all of Texas, let alone those working with women in such a vulnerable state. I can only imagine how disheartening it must be for physicians to go through the schooling, training, and testing with such dedication, only to be mere puppets in the end.

Today Husband came home with a number five candle and a cupcake from our neighborhood bakery for us to blow out together. I want to say that I can’t believe I hadn’t even realized that it was five years ago, on this day, but maybe it’s intentional and I don’t want to admit that the time has moved so quickly and so casually. How are we just moving on like, Oh well? I visited her nook earlier in the year, the place where her ashes were released (alongside those of her cousin’s). My sister, niece, and I flew out there for my birthday this year to connect with them. We sat among the seashells and dipped our toes in the cold, January waters to feel the presence of our girls. My beautiful niece hadn’t a clue that amongst those shells that she was catching with me, was also a substantial amount of her mom’s and my emotions scattered about. Those broken pieces of us will forever dance among the waves, sparkle under the sun, and be pulled out sea with each full moon. That’s essentially all we have left, as well as one single wind chime that sings to us. Child seems to be drawn to it and always manages to make the chime her sing a little extra loudly. Today we woke up to our chime, just singing away on her own. 🩷