Amidst pre-Thanksgiving craziness, as I was double-checking ingredients and doing oven-math, I learned that a pregnant friend and her partner had lost their baby. She was 26 weeks along.
My body merged with my chair. I couldn't move. The last time I'd seen her (she's the pretty brunette in all of
Westley's haircut pictures), she was visibly pregnant. We almost pointedly didn't talk about it. I'd been desperate to ask how she was doing, feeling, and all that, but whenever I think about talking about babies
to someone, a cantaloupe materializes in my throat and a piano drops on my chest. In fact, the last time we talked about baby-anything, I'd been impatient for my first post-D&C period.
I re-read her news, awash in the sensation of being too sad to cry. That is wrong, was all I could think. That is bullshit. No one should have this happen to them. Ever. Especially not someone so young and healthy and lovely and in love.
I cannot stop thinking about the hugeness of a 26-week loss. (I can't think about anything else.) I felt so betrayed to have miscarried
at 12 weeks,
right when I was supposed to be leaving the "danger zone." To be 26 weeks pregnant and then, over a weekend...
not pregnant... I would say "I can't begin to imagine," but I
can begin, and then some.
The sadness makes my bones ache.
.....................................
