Today, while straightening a few things around the apartment, I found a few ultrasound pictures. I remember marvelling over them with Hubs and the kids, noticing the little changes from one picture to the next. And, then, there was the final one, the one taken on the same day we scheduled the surgery. Even then, it still looked like a normal, developing baby- except for the heart that stopped beating, there was nothing to point to, to say this went wrong or that hadn't developed properly.
That same day the last ultrasound was taken, the doctor said that, if we wanted, we could find out through a series of tests,why I had miscarried. I immediately turned to my husband and shook my head no. I didn't want to know the reason. The reason didn't change the fact that our baby was gone. The how of it, I thought, would do nothing to ease the pain.
Almost a month later and it still hurts. It hurts to see a pregnant woman. It hurts to see that pregnancy magazine that I bought when I first found out I was pregnant. It hurts when well meaning friends glaze over the whole thing instead of asking how I am doing. It hurts to talk about it, but it hurts even more to try to brush it under the rug. I can't forget. I don't want to forget.