You Existed: On Early Miscarriage
Heather McCain
I remember the day I found out you were gone like it was yesterday. I can still hear the paper crinkling under my bottom as the nurse hugged me. She had just told me that you had no heartbeat. Everything in the room seemed to be white. The ultrasound machine, the walls, the floor. All of the white combined with the overhead lights made the room seem so bright. How was every damn thing surrounding me so bright and white while I was suddenly being consumed by darkness?
That night, I remember a friend asking me why I was crying, as if my loss was insignificant because I had never gotten to meet you. What he didn't know was that I had already named you. Jailyn Michelle if you were a girl, and Gage Thomas if you were a boy. I had already envisioned you in my arms and you were already nestled into my heart. I laid in bed at night, imagining what you would be like. I talked to you and made plans for us. I was young, but you were so wanted.
That night, I remember a friend asking me why I was crying, as if my loss was insignificant because I had never gotten to meet you. What he didn't know was that I had already named you. Jailyn Michelle if you were a girl, and Gage Thomas if you were a boy. I had already envisioned you in my arms and you were already nestled into my heart. I laid in bed at night, imagining what you would be like. I talked to you and made plans for us. I was young, but you were so wanted.
It took me weeks to begin processing what had happened. That you, my baby, just the size of a raspberry, with little fingers and toes and a beating heart, had died in my womb. By the time I was able to face the heartache, it seemed like everyone else had already forgotten.
I felt so alone in my grief, with my heart and my uterus both empty and aching for you. No one mentioned that I had been pregnant just weeks before anymore. Or that the future I was planning for us had just been flipped upside down. That was one of the absolute hardest parts, the world moving on as if you never existed.
I felt so alone in my grief, with my heart and my uterus both empty and aching for you. No one mentioned that I had been pregnant just weeks before anymore. Or that the future I was planning for us had just been flipped upside down. That was one of the absolute hardest parts, the world moving on as if you never existed.
But you did. You existed. At one point, I watched your little heart flutter on a screen. I saw your tiny arms and legs squirming. My heart swelled with joy as I felt love as a mother for the first time. And I saw you lifeless and still on the screen the day I learned your heart had stopped. Then, my heart shattered as I felt pain as a mother for the first time.
I never got to see your face, but our souls met. I never got to hold your hand, but we are intertwined. I never got to swoon over your tiny feet, but you left footprints in my life. You are forever my baby and I am forever your mother.
I never got to see your face, but our souls met. I never got to hold your hand, but we are intertwined. I never got to swoon over your tiny feet, but you left footprints in my life. You are forever my baby and I am forever your mother.
