artificial insemination kit for humans
Trigger warning: infant loss
“You need to eat.” My partner’s eyes were turned away as he dropped a bag of plain potato chips into my lap and returned to his work call, pacing in the airport terminal. I stared at the chips—plain, unappetizing, and deeply unappealing to me. The tears came again, large and slippery, cascading down my cheeks. I tasted salt as I fought to hold them back. What was I doing in an airport in Arizona on a Monday afternoon? Crying in public? This wasn’t who I was.
But carrying the weight of a lifeless baby inside me was a reality I never anticipated. Just three days prior, we had gone for the five-month ultrasound. The sun had shone brightly, warming my shoulders as I walked into the hospital, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak that awaited. Even as the technician took longer than expected, I didn’t feel an ounce of fear. I had cherished being pregnant—the roundness of my belly, the promise of life growing within, the smiles from strangers who noticed my bump. My relationship had felt stronger, my partner protective, as he opened doors for me and checked in from the grocery store to ensure he picked up my favorite yogurt. Pregnancy had temporarily smoothed the rough edges of our relationship.
Now, sitting in a molded plastic chair with a plastic bag of chips in my lap, I tried to suppress my tears. Years had gone by, and yet he still didn’t know I despised plain chips. My hair hung down, obscuring my face as I nervously crumpled the bag. Since leaving the hospital, I felt like I was teetering on the edge of a dark abyss, scrambling to hold onto something before I fell.
“The baby has no heartbeat,” the doctor had told us, quickly averting his gaze. I asked him to repeat it. The words were both a whisper and a scream. What? I wanted to disappear. He explained the procedure scheduled for Tuesday, but I nodded in confusion, realizing I hadn’t grasped anything. “Please, tell me again.” His sigh and flash of irritation only deepened my despair. “After the procedure, you might want to take time off work.” Work? My mind couldn’t grasp the concept.
“The baby has no heartbeat,” I repeated as we exited, hoping that by saying it again, it might somehow make sense. Outside, the brightness of the sun, the chatter from sidewalk cafés, and the hum of everyday life felt overwhelming. The realization that I would have to endure the next four days with my lifeless baby inside me was unbearable. I wanted to expel him from my body immediately, yet I also wanted to keep him there forever. Maybe they had made a mistake.
I felt unsteady on my feet. My journey into motherhood had begun with the desire for a baby, dreaming about what my child would be like. For five months, I had adjusted my identity to include him. Now, who was I?
We returned home, but I couldn’t bear to stay there. “We have to leave. I need to get out of here,” I told my partner. I couldn’t even look at the nursery door. He didn’t argue. Grateful for a distraction, he booked us a weekend getaway at a resort in Arizona. But once we arrived, I barely left the bed. “It’s gorgeous outside, Jessica,” he urged, opening the shades each morning, but I turned away, leaving him to wander alone for hours and play video games into the night. Our conversations were sparse.
He wanted to comfort me. “We’ll have another baby. Did you hear what the doctor said? It’s going to be alright.” I had spent hours folding tiny clothes and pondering names. I had envisioned placing him in the crib I had painstakingly painted. I had felt his movements inside me and mapped out his future. To me, he was a person, and in an instant, he had become a procedure. “You need to remain hopeful,” my partner suggested, faltering under the intensity of my gaze. I resented his attempts to make it better.
Now we were on our way back to New York. Our flight had been delayed, and I sat crying over a bag of plain chips.
Suddenly, through my tears, a hand appeared, offering a tissue. I didn’t look up but gratefully accepted it, immediately soaking it with my tears. Another tissue followed, and finally, I looked up to see a woman in her 60s, elegantly dressed in a Chanel suit, sitting beside me. Her silver hair was styled perfectly, and her eyes were a warm chocolate brown that radiated kindness. For the first time in days, someone was willing to meet my gaze.
“Oh honey, I’m so sorry,” she said gently. I stared at her.
“We lost our baby,” I blurted, my hands instinctively cradling my still swollen belly.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, my dear girl.” Her words enveloped me like a warm embrace, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
“My partner… he wants me to eat but he got me these chips; I hate them.” I held up the unopened bag. “I don’t understand why I can’t stop crying,” and the tears began again.
She nodded, her eyes never leaving mine. “There are moments in life that define us, marking a before and an after. It will never be the same.” She moved closer, taking my hand as my body trembled with sobs.
While my partner continued pacing on the opposite side of the airport, I felt a glimmer of stability. I gripped the stranger’s hand, her elegant sleeve anchoring me, and for the first time in days, I felt like I wasn’t falling.
If you’re looking for further insight on this topic, check out this blog post that discusses related experiences. For those interested in enhancing their fertility journey, Make a Mom offers excellent resources. Additionally, Cleveland Clinic’s podcast serves as a fantastic resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
In a moment of deep personal loss, a woman grapples with the emotions surrounding her pregnancy after learning of her baby’s passing. While her partner struggles to provide comfort, it is a kind stranger in an airport who offers her the understanding and compassion she desperately needs, reminding her that life will forever be altered by this experience.
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