On Friday, two days ago, I went alone to my routine OB check-up. I figured I’d pop over the doctor’s office during my lunch break and then be back at my desk quickly to finish up my busy workday.
All went perfectly until it was time to kick back, relax and enjoy the ultrasound. No one expected to see a problem. My bloodwork continued to be perfect, my last ultrasound had showed a healthy baby, and my pregnancy symptoms continued unabated. Unfortunately, however, it was immediately clear from the look on the ultrasonographer’s face when she waved the wand over my belly that something was very wrong. They switched machines, called in my doctor, and then told me the bad news.
Our baby had died – probably within the previous 24 hours. There was a perfect baby pictured on the screen, except for the fact that he was completely still.
The rest of the appointment is a blur, as are the past two days since then. My doctor tried to get me scheduled for surgery immediately, but there was nothing available until Monday. That means I am spending the weekend in bed, on sedatives, surrounded by people who love me, but all the while keenly aware that my dead baby remains in my belly. I keep patting him and talking to him.
Now I think I will try to sleep some more. I wish I could sleep right up to and through the surgery tomorrow, and only wake up when it’s all over.