the flutter of a heartbeat Losing a child is the hardest thing anyone will go through. To know that you will never hear their laughter or see their face again. But to never have these memories, to lose your child before these precious moments are even given to you... this is the hardest of all.
Losing a child is the hardest thing anyone will go through. To know that you will never hear their laughter or see their face again.
It was midday at the hospital. A girl with brassy hair gasped and winced as another contraction hit her.
"It's okay," soothed a young boy, his hand inside hers as she squeezed.
"Miss, we're going to need you to start pushing."
The couple missed the alarm in the doctor's voice as a nurse glanced worriedly at the girl.
But to never have these memories, to lose your child before these precious moments are even given to you is the hardest of all.
The girl nodded, and winced as she struggled. She gave a small cry of pain as her body protested her actions and quickly stopped.
If you're lucky, you'll know beforehand.
"Miss, we need you to keep pushing."
The girl shut her eyes and clenched her jaw. Just then, the monitor beside gave a small beep and all eyes in the room except hers turned towards the sound, watching the erratic pattern being traced across the screen.
"Miss," repeated the doctor, thoroughly alarmed. "We need you to push now."
You'll go in for your ultrasound like the happiest person alive. Then, while you're holding your breath and waiting, the picture will come onto the screen. You will feel the silence and the stillness in the room and you'll know that something is wrong.
The girl cried out as she clenched her muscles again, this time not stopping as pain jolted through her body.
"Harder," urged the doctor, poised at the end of the bed.
She repeated the action, her fingers clasping the boy's hand tightly as she rolled her head sideways and cried out in pain again.
They will tell you. They will tell you that it might happen, that it's a complication of teen pregnancy, they will tell you they are sorry and they will tell you to stay hopeful.
"Again," he said, his forehead barely shining with perspiration.
As she pressed for the third time, a rushing feeling swept through her body and she could hear her own pulse in her ears as she gasped for breath.
Everyone in the room held their breath except for her, as they stared at the small being in the doctor's arms. They waited for a cry, a sound, something...
But all they could hear was the silence, ringing in their ears, mocking them.
What they won't tell you is that, instead of a birth certificate, you will get a death certificate.
Slowly everyone turned to the girl on the hospital bed. Her eyes were tired, her breathing slow.
"Miss, I'm very sorry."
Slowly he extended his arms towards her.
"Would you..."
She sat up slowly, glanced at the small bundle, and looked away.
They won't tell you what to do with an empty room full of furniture.
"No."
Everyone in the room was watching her now, yet no one noticed her hand shake as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
They will not tell you that you can't walk around in your own neighbourhood without people whispering, eyeing you, spinning out of your way so they won't have to say anything to you.
"I don't want to see him," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Just take him away."
She shut her eyes, and still nobody moved. Opening them, she set her face with a hard, resolute stare.
She turned towards the doctor.
"Go."
And they will never tell you about the jealousy you will feel when you sit on a park bench and watch mothers with their toddlers, pushing them on swingsets and catching them at the bottom of a slide.
They won't tell you about the emptiness you will feel as you watch the doctor in the next room, a stethoscope to the baby's chest as he listens... for a breath, for a sound, for the flutter of a heartbeat.
They won't tell you, how much it hurts...