This post was originally posted on my publication, Simple Faithful Motherhood, on Substack.

I’ll always remember the date. 16th June, 2025, Monday.

We had just gotten back from church retreat the week before, where we told many friends our giddy-happy news of expecting our second baby. We told anyone with whom the topic of having more kids would come up in conversations. We repeated ourselves for anyone standing nearby who could overhear. Yes, yes, you heard right! We’re pregnant with number two!

By the end of retreat on Thursday, I lost track of who we had told. All I know was that I couldn’t wait for next Monday to come because that was our second doctor’s visit, and I was excited to see my baby on ultrasound for the second time.

I recall the first time I saw him, and heard his heartbeat.

I fell head over heels in love. A new little one to love and protect.

My husband L filmed the whole time the doctor was doing the scan. Doc graciously allowed it. There were no red flags; she assessed everything to be progressing well. She even said, “Baby’s measuring an all time high of 7mm.” That was at 6 weeks along. With the first all-clear given, we began to dream for our near future.

We dreamt about the new layout for our kids’ room. I spent too much time on IKEA’s website drooling over the Kura bunk bed (my dad disapproved — he thought it was too dangerous).

We dreamt about the many ways J was going to be such a fantastic big brother. J dreamt about sharing toys, having a roommate, and never sleeping alone again. I told him, “You’ll have a best friend for life.” We asked him everyday if he thought the baby was a boy or a girl. His answer changed every single day. I had a feeling baby was a he, and that’s how I’ve been referring to him.

“It’s all dark where my womb is. I’m looking at a blank screen, growing anxious over what it means. At 11 weeks, we should be able to see something.”

The day everything changed

Then came Monday, where everything changed.

Fast forward to where we’re now sitting in the doctor’s office.

I’m lying on the exam table and I see the doctor moving the ultrasound wand around but I don’t see anything come up on the screen. It’s all dark where my womb is. I’m looking at a blank screen, growing anxious over what it means. At 11 weeks, we should be able to see something. At 11 weeks with J, we could make out his body, little arms and little legs.

She “hmms” and “humms”, then asks the assistant to prep for a trans-vaginal ultrasound.

Feeling something amiss, but still being hopeful, I asked the doc, “Why, is baby too small? Cannot find?”

“Hmm. Let’s see.”

After a few more silent minutes of scanning and “hmm”-ing, she calls my husband in to look at the screen. Then she says something I wasn’t expecting in my wildest imagination to hear.

“I’m afraid it’s not good news. There is no heartbeat, and your baby is not moving.”

She adds, “From the size of your baby on the scan I see here, your baby has probably passed about two weeks ago. It’s only measuring about 8 weeks.”

I’m shocked, absolutely blindsided. Just minutes ago, L and I were teasing each other that this scan might just show up twins given how much more nauseous I’d been feeling this pregnancy. We had no clue the truth would be so much further from that.

I ask the doctor and her assistant if they could give me a minute while I get dressed and just process this information. They left me behind the curtain, and I sat there sobbing, and wailing. This is not how I usually cry. So this is what grief sounds like.

I had a missed miscarriage

“I hate that there are so many ways to lose a baby. I hate how common this is. The research says one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage — but for me, it wasn’t a 25% chance. It was everything. It was 100%.”

We had so many questions for the doctor. What happened? How was it possible that my baby already died but I was still feeling pregnant? She patiently answered all our questions.

I was told it was a missed miscarriage — when a baby dies in the womb, but the body doesn’t recognize the loss right away. Hormones continue rising, symptoms persist. No wonder I was still vomiting even right up to that day.

What the doctor shared was only the summary. Back outside in the waiting room, I turned to Google, desperate to make sense of this diagnosis I’ve just got handed. That’s when I found a whole glossary of pregnancy loss: “chemical pregnancy,” “blighted ovum,” “ectopic pregnancy,” “missed miscarriage”…

I hate that there are so many ways to lose a baby. I hate how common this is. The research says one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage — but for me, it wasn’t a 25% chance. It was everything. It was 100%.

A string of impossible decisions

We were given two options — take a set of pills that would induce labour, or go for a D&C procedure to surgically remove the contents of my womb, including the baby. I asked the doctor if my body would naturally “evacuate the womb” (I’m trying to sanitize my words in an attempt to not be too graphic). She said I could wait a day or two, to take time to come to terms with it, but not to wait too long because there’s a risk of infection.

“I really didn’t know what to choose. None of these options are the better options. None of these are good. I’d rather not have to choose any option if it meant I could still carry my baby, alive.”

I really didn’t know what to choose. None of these options are the better options. None of these are good. I’d rather not have to choose any option if it meant I could still carry my baby, alive.

Eventually, we signed the consent form to have the evacuation medically. I was told to get a blood test done before going home, just in case the induction of labour causes me to lose too much blood and I needed to come back in for an emergency transfusion.

I had my blood taken. I’m deathly afraid of needles, but by this time, I was already feeling so much pain in my heart that I didn’t care what the nurses did to me. You could poke and prod me all you wanted but nothing would be as painful as the fact that my baby was gone.

And then we went home. What followed were a string of decisions to make. Every decision, big or small, felt impossible.

Do we eat lunch here at the hospital, or quickly buy lunch home before we pick up our toddler from school?

Do we tell our family now? My family first? Your family first?

Do we tell our son today? Tomorrow? Ever?

When do I take the first pill?

Do I attempt to recover the tiny body? Will I even recognize it?

What if I do? What do I do with it? Keep it? Bury it? Cremate it?

Should I tell my boss why I’ve been given 5 days sick leave?

I mustered every ounce of strength I could to figure out the next step, and then the next. L and I held hands and walked home in silence. When we finally got home, I sunk into the dining chair, buried my face in L’s shoulders, and wept. When I looked up at him, I saw tears streaming down his face.

He rarely, almost never, cries.

DID YOU FIND THIS HELPFUL?

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