It was my first pregnancy. At 11.5 weeks, on a Wednesday, I noticed spotting. The next day, we went to the clinic to get checked out. We were scheduled for an ultrasound the next day, but in my heart I said goodbye to my baby.
The ultrasound confirmed it. The radiologist explained what an anembryonic pregnancy was and how our baby hadn’t developed properly from day 1, that I would miscarry within a couple of days. We went home to wait. I cried.
I began bleeding on Sunday. It continued throughout the night. I threw up from the pain. Each time, I gushed blood. My partner begged to take me to the hospital. At 6 am, I let him.
When we got to the hospital, we had to wait in the ER. I was laying on the chairs, in pain and gushing blood. Silently crying and grieving. This person started talking about how “these people aren’t sick” and looking at me. If she only knew.
They brought me for another ultrasound where the technician was silent and sadness permeated the room. Part of me hoped they’d find my baby hanging out and happy, but I knew they wouldn’t.
When I returned to my room, the OB/GYN offered a D&C or to see if my body would finish the job on its own. I chose the D&C. I couldn’t bear to go through that again. A few hours later, I was wheeled into surgery where I went to sleep and woke up completely alone.
Waiting on Sunrise 