Photo Credit: Bam Davenport
On the day before my 34th birthday, my husband was working out of town. When he got home, I told him I'd been feeling "off" all day.
We're parents to a rainbow baby boy already, and being a few days shy of 17 weeks pregnant, I just had a feeling.
Moments after telling him, I went to the bathroom and saw blood. We rushed to the hospital.
An IV couldn't be placed—they even checked my neck. Finally one was set nearly two hours into our stay.
I asked the ultrasound tech if my baby was still alive. She told me she couldn't say. I thought being pregnant in a pandemic was bad, but there I was, certain my baby has died though no one would confirm.
Finally, I got the news. There was no movement and no heartbeat. My baby had stopped growing just shy of 14 weeks.
I have an ultrasound photo of her little fingers and face, forever frozen. I have pregnancy tests with blue and pink lines. But no baby.
I had suffered a second trimester missed miscarriage. She was there, and then she wasn't.
I had a D&C operation, and was completely alone because my toddler and husband weren't allowed up due to COVID.
To all the mamas who've heard "I'm sorry" or "there's no heartbeat" or any other bad news alone during this pandemic—you're not alone.
I decided to name my angel Aella, which means wind. Because while I cannot see her, I feel her, like the wind.
Thank you @chasingadoublerainbow for sharing your story. Shared with permission.