I am sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting for the blood draw that will confirm what I already know.
Beautiful bellies around me all holding a precious life. Two women right next to me chatting about how they are both expecting their second babies. I listen, but don’t talk.
Right now, I am losing my baby.
I am at the grocery store, food piled up high in the cart ready to feed the troops at home. You smile at me as I stack my groceries to be scanned, and I smile back. You make a comment about how I must be feeding an army, and I laugh.
Right now, in this moment, you don’t know it but I am losing my baby.
On the floor, stacking blocks and building ships. Playing pretend and dancing to Baby Shark. Goofy faces and story time on the couch. I hold them when they cry. I giggle when they laugh. I am there when emotions get to be too much or someone has an ouchie to fix.
They don’t know it, but someone who I wanted so much to be here with them will always be missing because I am losing my baby.
The music is blaring, and the crowd is singing along. Everyone around me is smiling and living for this moment, enjoying every second, taking it in. We have been looking forward to this concert for months and the last time I was here circumstances were so much different. I reach down, I slowly place my hand on my tummy and wonder if you are still there to hear the music.
I am losing you, baby, and I am trying to be strong.
Here I am. There you are not. And I go on without the world knowing you even existed.
I think of you when I see your birth month listed on the milk carton’s expiration date, or when another pregnancy announcement floats my way.
I remember you when I walk past the empty nursery room in our home, or when a stranger asks how many children I have.
I realize in each of those moments that I lost my baby and life will always be a little different for me now.
Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.
I may have lost you, but I will always be your mother.
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