For crissakes, I thought I was done with these. Apparently, I’m not.
Last night I was baking four dozen of my mini triple chocolate chip cupcakes. I had been on my feet for awhile and the monotony of frosting and decorating them apparently let my brain flow freely. All of a sudden- BANG- I’m in the little examining room in the L&D wing of the hospital I was born in, my mom to the left of my feet, a nurse to the right of midsection, and a male radiologist firmly moving an ultrasound wand over my 20 weeks pregnant still belly. All he did was stare at the screen (of which I couldn’t really see, I assume on purpose) and take measurements with his left hand. He didn’t say. A. Word. Not one. For what felt like 20 minutes. I wish I knew how long it truly was. I clearly remember thinking that this isn’t brain surgery, you either see a heartbeat or you don’t, so WHAT in the FUCK are you doing over there, dear sir? WHY are you not telling me what you are seeing? Are you that much of a pussy that you can’t tell me already, why are you doing this to me? Haven’t you been in these situations before? I truly can not be your first dead baby ultrasound, right? Don’t they teach you what to say in these situations?
Apparently he did eventually say something to me, because I tried bargaining with him. “But, you don’t understand…see, this was my 8th IVF. These things don’t happen to people who suffered through 8 IVFs. Not to mention the egg was from a healthy and fertile young donor. Again, in situations like this, babies don’t die. So fix it.”
And then- BANG- I’m back in my kitchen, holding a knife smothered in Betty Crocker milk chocolate frosting in my right hand and an itty bitty cupcake in my left one. Just like that.
Let me tell you, this dead baby shit is hard. Damn fucking fucking shit hard.
I’ve been so much better, really to terms with it (I won’t say “at peace” with it because I don’t think one ever is.) Yes yes, of course, I’m thrilled that I have two perfect and wonderful biological children sleeping in the room next door, but this was still a baby, a person, that I let down. He was SOMEone.
That fucking examining room. That fucking silent radiologist. My poor, poor sweet little D.I.J.
I’m so sorry my body failed you, that I failed you. I love you so much, my sweets. As do your little brother and sister.
So guess what? It’s March 17th. The anniversary of the experience I just described above is in exactly seven days. He died March 24, 2009. Perhaps that’s why I had this flashback…I knew there was a reason I abhorred March. I can’t believe it’s been three years. How is that even possible?