The day just felt weird.
I had this feeling of impending doom over me that morning as I sat in bed studying, waiting to get dressed for afternoon clinic.
Once I got there, I was cramping, and I knew things were not OK.
It was so intense throughout that afternoon that I would bend over while seeing patients or collapse into a chair out of necessity.
I went to the bathroom between patients to check for blood — there was none.
I looked to heaven and begged God for a healthy baby; don’t ever think prayers go unheard.
On the drive home, I writhed in pain, convincing myself that the cramping was normal and that it was just pregnancy pains.
When I got out of the car, I felt a gush, and I knew you were not OK.
I walked through the front door, not knowing what to say to your dad as he smiled at me, excited about something or another.
Daddy was hopeful, but I’d seen this enough to know that your time with us was ending.
There was blood — so much blood.
And there were tears.
We went to the hospital to confirm what I had already known.
Though the times required that I go in alone, the providers I encountered were kind and gentle.
I sat on the hospital bed alone: exposed, blood soaking the pad, feeling as empty as the sac on the ultrasound screen.
You were six weeks and six days — I saw your little heart flicker not even a full week ago — but you were gone.
I never got to see your little bean shape or watch my belly grow, and that selfishly made things a little easier.
I still haven’t been able to talk to God like I used to.
But I hope the little prayers I say for you don’t go unheard.
I’ll never know why you were given to me just to be taken back.
Was my body not hospitable?
Would you need special care that we would be unable to provide?
Was the timing wrong?
Did God have special plans for you in heaven?
I don’t know.
And I’m sorry we never got to know you and that we couldn’t be the parents you needed on this earth.
But I love you.
I’ll never forget you.
I pray your beautiful soul is playing in heaven with the other little angels.
We’re not OK, but we know you are.
Yasmin Uzamere is a family medicine resident.
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