07/23/2020
And the does it again. Her words have this way of connecting to memories, feelings and, of course, my daughter. Thank you for constantly reminding me (collective us) that we are not alone.
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I want there to be a word for that moment right before you find out that your baby no longer has a heartbeat.
A word for the way it gets really quiet all of a sudden.
A word to describe the way you keep searching the ultrasound tech's face as they try to avoid your gaze
I wish there was a word to explain the perceptible shift in the atmosphere.
A word to describe the way your head gets spinny and all you can hear is the hum of machinery and fluorescent lights.
I want there to be a word for the vulnerability you feel as you lay there just lying to yourself about what's to come.
A word for the way your heart goes from fluttery to thudding in your ears.
A word for that feeling of dizzy panic and heavy grief that hit you at the same time.
There should be a word for how the air feels all shaky as you breathe in and just wait.
A word for the feeling of watching someone's mouth start to say the words you really don't want to hear.
A word for that one last moment of hopefulness before the world comes crashing down.
Why isn't there a word?
Because maybe then people could better understand what it's like to find out your baby has died. If there was a word to describe that feeling, then maybe we wouldn't have to say so many words to break the silence around miscarriage and stillbirth.
Instead, we could just say the word and people would listen.
