Told by: Brionne

I was 21 when I had my son. The getting pregnant part was easy (and accidental), but the being pregnant part was really hard.

I was horribly sick with morning sickness then when I finally got over that I developed pre-eclampsia and was put on bed rest. My son was born at exactly 37 weeks, all 8lbs 9oz of him. He was/is absolutely beautiful. Even when I was pregnant and miserable, I loved it.

I loved him moving and hiccuping and kicking.. I loved seeing my belly grow. I knew that I wanted more kids. I knew that I wanted my kids to be close in age, just like I was with my brothers. So when my husband and I divorced, I was heartbroken for my son for a lot of reasons.. one of them being that I knew he might not ever get the siblings I always so wanted for him.

Fast forward to 7 years later… I waited until I was a week late with my period before I took a home pregnancy test and “Pregnant” popped up immediately. A surprise pregnancy. But an oh so happy pregnancy because I already knew that this baby would be 8 years younger than my son, but my son LOVES babies and younger kids. He always has. As soon as I found out, I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to be excited and I wanted him to know that he had someone coming for him.. but I decided to wait until after my 8 week check-up at the doctor’s when they did the sonogram so I could show him the picture. I decided to wait to tell the rest of my family as well. I told a few friends and that was it.

One of my best friends told me to take another test about 6 weeks, so I did. The plus, again, popped up immediately, confirming the original test. A few days after this, at 6 weeks, I started spotting after a pap smear, so I called the doctor in panic. She told me everything was fine and that it was normal. They said they would see me in a couple weeks. They said don’t worry. So I didn’t worry. I kept taking my prenatal vitamins, kept rubbing my belly while imagining this little boy or girl growing in there, kept picturing the future of my family with two kids, kept picturing my son as an older brother.. such a wonderful, loving older brother.

At my 8 week check-up my doctor did a sonogram. She searched and searched and searched. She said maybe she just wasn’t getting a good picture. She said maybe I wasn’t as far along as we thought. Then she sent me across the street to an imaging place. The lady there was very gentle. She did an internal ultrasound and an external. She said everything looked great as far as my body, but she said there was no heartbeat.

As she walked me out she said maybe I got a false positive on my home pregnancy test. My doctor called me as soon as I got out to my car and told me to go have my blood drawn to check my hormone levels. By this time I had been bounced around everywhere and it was 5pm. I went just next door to the lab, but they were closed. I cried the whole way home. I had one last pregnancy test, and I wanted to know. So I peed on the stick and waited… and waited…. and waited. Until “Not Pregnant” popped up.

And my heart broke into a million pieces, just shattered on the floor. This baby, this little boy or girl that I had waited for and wanted so badly for so long, this precious little being, this amazing little baby that I loved from the second I knew, that I wanted from before I knew… was gone. Not just gone, but gone before I even knew. When the doctor told me everything was okay, it wasn’t. And I still believed for two weeks that this miracle was coming when it was gone already. Because I hadn’t told my son, my family, my boss, or anybody else, nobody knew why I was crying.

Nobody knew why I couldn’t get out of bed. Nobody knew why I couldn’t function. And I felt like I couldn’t tell them because he or she was gone. Was I having a boy or a girl? Maybe was I having twins? Was he going to be tall like his father? Was she going to have red hair and green eyes like me? Would he look just like his brother? Would she like sports? Would he like games? What would have happened? All of these questions that I imagined that I will never know the answer to. Cause they were taken before I ever had the chance.

And, honestly, sometimes I feel like I don’t have a right to mourn. Nobody knew but me. My belly didn’t grow big. I didn’t hear his or her heartbeat. I didn’t have to give birth. But my heart knows that’s wrong. My heart knows I lost something so tiny but so monumental. Now I find myself just trying to find a way to honor him or her in my way, without making things awkward for everyone around me who just wants me to move on or get over it or whatever else they say. Now I find myself just trying to be okay, to get from day to day.. I just don’t know how.