CW: minor details of an ultrasound prior to miscarriage, some self-blame, lots of apologizing.

We actually knew the night before it happened that something was very wrong. The doctor in ED told us she wanted to admit me for observation. A bit later, while she did a bedside ultrasound while we were still in ED, the baby was hard to see and not moving. The doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat. She said the machine being used was lo-res and my bladder was empty, so it was 50/50 at that point, and she would refer us for a formal ultrasound the next morning.

(Having met the Trashbag Sonographer, I’m kind of glad it didn’t go down that way.)

I remember apologizing to Blake the second she finished speaking and bursting into tears. My brain kept trying to grab onto her words for the tiny sliver of hope they still offered, while my body knew better. I just kept saying “I’m sorry” to Blake while he held me. I was told I had nothing to apologize for.

I know that now, of course, and I possibly knew that even then. But I remember thinking I’ve let him down. He was so excited to be a dad and I failed him. It was my body, my job. I was tasked with this magical, incredible responsibility and I came up short. The perfectionist in me, the person accustomed to succeeding at most things with only minimum effort... they were shattered, too.

Blake insisted, repeatedly, that it was not my fault. How couldn’t it be, though? My brain was suddenly playing back a “greatest hits” of all my possible mistakes during the pregnancy. How wasn’t it my fault?

If it wasn’t my fault, then it means I had no control. Having no control is unacceptable to me, so I think my brain fought that for a while.

Eventually, slowly, over what felt like an eternity (it was probably just a few minutes), I felt the focus shift from guilt, shame, self-blame to sorrow. My “I’m sorry”s became expressions of condolence rather than an acceptance of responsibility. I was (and am) sorry that Blake isn’t going to be a father just yet. I was (and am) sorry that Blake has already gone through so much this year, that I was piling this on him too.

Remembering his excitement from just a few days before still makes me cry.

He went home to bed (past 01:00) after I was admitted and I tried very hard to sleep but didn’t. I fought against the realization that my body had already made. I recited the doctor’s lines like a mantra, putting my hands on my belly, telling the baby they were desperately wanted, pleading with the universe for everything to somehow be okay.

That gap between accepting the worst and hoping beyond hope is such a weird one. It was like bouncing between the two with each heartbeat, going back and forth, looking for whichever one feels the most tolerable, because that changed constantly. I’m sure there’s a scientific name for this feeling that I’ll eventually learn and add to my lexicon. But it’s like, you don’t want to give up until you know for sure. But it would also be... easier? more validating? to just accept the worst, because then you can’t be disappointed regardless of what happens the next morning.

The miscarriage happened at 05:48. Through it all, I made sure I remembered the time even as my wailing began. My baby would deserve this much, for me to know what time they left me, because there was nothing else I could do. I wasn’t alone at least; a lovely nurse was with me as it happened.

My first words to Blake on the phone when I told him what happened were again an apology. He came straight over. Thank goodness we only live 10 minutes away from the hospital.

I called my mum. Again, “I’m sorry” were the first words I said after telling her what happened. I knew how much she was looking forward to being a grandmother. She assured me that she was just sad for me.

My dad turned 70 this year. I know that he has been very excited to be a grandfather, and I wanted him to be a grandfather at 70, too. He was alone in Beijing, too. I called him, after mum told me she had already spoken to him. I apologized. He told me not to, but in a not-so-rare show of defiance I did it anyway. Like mum, he just wanted me to be okay. By this time we knew it would be unlikely that I’d need surgery, so I did reassure him of that at least.

Living far away from my parents is something I’ve gotten used to. I’ve done it for almost half my life. Some things don’t make that easy, no matter how accustomed you are. I’m still deciding if they should come down and see me.

I was in the shower when my mother-in-law arrived at the hospital. I worried the most about her, as you may recall. She has been through a special kind of hell this year, the details of which I won’t share here, but still marches on like a fucking hero. I knew the baby was a light in the darkness for her. There was a part of me that dreaded facing her.

Blake was hugging her when I got out of the shower. I walked over and just blurted out another “I’m sorry” as I hugged her. I was (and am) sorry that there was now yet another reason for her to cry. I am sorry that now she doesn’t have something amazing and wonderful to look forward to, only more grief and uncertainty.

Blake admitted that “I’m sorry” was the first thing he said to her, too.

English is a bit of a ridiculous language, to be honest. How can an expression of solemn solidarity or condolences be the exact same pair of words as an acceptance of responsibility? And we wonder why people so often end up conflating the two within themselves. Honestly.

Even in my head, I had to remind myself of what I was actually saying when I was saying sorry. At the start, yes, there was a sense of responsibility as I sought to grasp at any strand of control I could find. Later, it became an acknowledgement that I wasn’t the only person to lose someone important, anticipated, and loved. For each “I’m sorry”, it was like reminder for me that I wasn’t alone, that this baby represented so much to all of us. It both comforted and devastated. I’m deeply sorry for our loss.