CW: Baby Loss
The Beginning.
The first few weeks, I was cautious, didn’t tell anyone except my husband, because it wasn’t safe yet. We all knew what could happen in the first three months when an ethereal life tried to grow inside. Women rarely talked of it, but it was there, a cloud hanging low, threatening with rainy days.
A lot of friends and family members had been through it. I had seen the tears, the haunted faces, the shaky hands rubbing desperately empty bellies. They whispered the news. It was an invisible loss; it happened. As if life had just been passing through, almost unnoticed. ‘Hello—goodbye—my mistake. I changed my mind. Sorry, I have other plans. I won’t stay.’
So, the first twelve weeks, I kept quiet, just grinned a lot.
When the twelve weeks mark passed, I exhaled with relief and we announced to the world the wonderful news. Oh, the pride in one’s body! I finally gave it the respect it deserved for doing such a brilliant job at not only keeping me alive, but also bringing another life forth.
‘Yay body, you’re amazing!’
Although I had some nausea, it wasn’t bad. Nothing much had changed, yet I got teary-eyed out of the blue, my temper flared faster, I showed my teeth on occasion, getting ready to protect the life inside. I was almost a mother.
The Middle.
I shrieked when the little shrimp kicked for the first time. This time, it wasn’t gas.
This time, it was my little shrimp.
Placing a trembling hand to my large belly, overwhelmed with love, I started a unilateral conversation.
‘Hi there, Little Shrimp, I’m your mum.’
My eyes filled with joyous tears, the exultation overwhelmed my hormonal self and I sobbed—loud. Ridiculously loud—with happiness. The little being wasn’t an invisible thing anymore. I could sense, feel, talk to the little shrimp and she kicked back. Communication. Pure love.
I reached five months. Halfway through. I wasn’t blooming—the books lie—but beamed with anticipation and my happiness hid the lack of blooming.
We started listing all the things she would need. I read books and magazines to understand where the little shrimp was at, and what to expect. We discussed names and chose one that seemed to meet the little shrimp’s approval if her kicks were anything to go by.
I was getting huge, but I didn’t care. There was a magical life growing inside, and I was madly in love with it.
The end.
It was a Friday, on a cold February night. I was lying in bed, under a fluffy duvet, pillows on the side, ready to place between my knees to avoid back pain, waiting for the little shrimp to calm down.
‘You’re having a party in there, Little Shrimp?’
After half an hour, the movements stopped. I settled for the night.
I woke up on Saturday feeling odd. Something was off.
I got scared. I knew.
The cat came and massaged my still belly as if to give chest compressions to the little shrimp.
‘It’s too late.’ I swallowed hard as I whispered the words.
He knew too.
We had plans that weekend, a big event to attend. I was so tense and desperately grief-stricken that I blocked my shoulder. I welcomed the physical pain.
All evening, women, young and old, ran excitedly to rub my belly. I plastered a weird smile on my face for a few hours while wondering if I was bringing them bad luck.
On Sunday, I called the doctor.
‘Something is wrong.’
The scan on Monday confirmed it, the little shrimp was no more. My little shrimp had suffered an aneurysm.
‘It’s rare, but it happens, and it’s nobody’s fault,’ the doctor said.
It’s not my fault.
It became a tuneless chorus on repeat.
It’s not my fault.
I needed to accept that fact, or I would have lost my mind.
The nightmare was not over because I, the almost mother, had an almost baby to give birth to. To give death to.
As I pushed, a fountain of desperation poured out of my eyes. The physical hurt of the “delivery” matched the agony in my heart. It helped a little. The pain was my friend at that point. It made the loss real.
They gave me pills to stop my body from assuming that there was a live baby. I took some to avoid lactation, but it came anyway because my body insisted that I was now a mother. It was still doing its job.
I didn’t respect that anymore.
I looked at the milk flowing, useless, and it broke my heart further.
I, the almost mother, had a ghost baby to mourn, a life dream to let go of. It had been there, and then it wasn’t. It was an intangible death, almost an unknown quantity, a ghost loss, a ghost baby.
First published in Loss - Lifespan Volume 9 (February/March 2024) - an anthology by Pure Slush
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