So That You Know

You will never hear me say "I lost my baby."

Because he was conceived with IVF, I have never been less than acutely aware of his location from the time the pieces that were to become him still resided in my husband and I.

From seperate components in their seperate dishes to one cell, two cell, eight cell, blastocyst...from petrie dish to tube to transfer into my uterus...from heartbeat to stronger heartbeat to movement...from the tell-tale growth of my breasts to the swell of my belly...there has never been a time in his short life when I didn't know exactly where he was.

And I haven't lost him now.

My baby died.

People don't like to hear it. People prefer the the softer phrase "I lost my baby."

But now, as always, I know exactly where my baby is. I knew where he was when he slid out of my body...when the nurses took him after we said goodbye...when the pathologists examined his tidy body...when he rested in the funeral home...when he lay in that small white casket...when he was cremated...and now, where he rests in the Babies Rose Garden in the cemetery.

I did not lose my baby.

My baby died.

I lost my dreams for his future. I lost the vision of the way our family was supposed to grow. I lost my care-free expectation that pregnancy ends with a baby. We - my husband and I - have lost the relationship we dearly wanted with a child who was dearly loved.

We have not lost our baby.

Our baby died. 

And if you think it's hard to hear it, try living it.