Click here for great holiday gift ideas for everyone on your list When I lost my baby, I knew it was a day I’d never forget. I was cleaning my kitchen, pop music blaring from a speaker, when I glanced at the digital calendar on my counter. That’s when I saw it—the butterfly emoji that flutters every August 21 to memorialize the day I lost my pregnancy.
But this time it wasn’t because of the miscarriage. For the first time in 10 years, the date my baby’s heart stopped beating had slipped my mind. It’s not hard for me to bring myself back to that day.
At my 12-week appointment, the doctor ran a fetal doppler across my belly, searching for a heartbeat she would never find. I watched the crease between her eyebrows deepen as she moved the wand around. She tried to reassure me there could be a reason she couldn’t find the heartbeat.
Still, it made sense to get an ultrasound. I headed off to a new location. I didn’t call anyone, doing my best to will “it’s fine” into existence.
I sat nervously in the waiting room, tapping my leg up and down as I listened for my name. When it was my turn, I laid back on the table, prepped for the squeeze of cool jelly on my stomach, then watched a screen on the wall as the ultrasound tech poked around to find my baby. The makings of my second born lit up on the screen.
Those images are always a bit tough to discern, but I could clearly see a head, a body, and four limbs. But those limbs weren’t moving, and the tech stayed quiet. She pressed buttons, took snapshots, and kept her gaze trained squarely on her computer screen.
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