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Trigger Warning: Infant Loss
“You need to eat.” My partner, Alex, said this without looking up, dropping a bag of plain potato chips into my lap as he continued his work call while pacing in the airport waiting area. I glared at the chips—I despised plain potato chips. Tears began to flow down my cheeks, salty and unwelcome. Why was I crying in public at an airport in Arizona on a Monday afternoon? This wasn’t like me.
But then again, nothing about carrying a lifeless baby felt normal. Just three days earlier, we had gone in for a five-month scan. The sun had shone warmly, a gentle caress on my shoulders as I walked to the hospital, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak that awaited. Even when the technician took longer than expected, I felt at peace, excited about the life growing inside me. My pregnancy had brought a softness to our strained relationship; Alex was attentive, opening doors and calling from the grocery store to ensure I got the yogurt I craved. Together, we were navigating this journey.
Now, sitting on a molded plastic chair with a bag of chips in my lap, I tried to stifle my tears. He still didn’t know I hated plain chips. My hair fell over my face as I fiddled with the bag, desperately trying to hold back the flood of emotions. Since the devastating news from the hospital, I felt like I was teetering on the edge of a dark abyss.
“The baby has no heartbeat,” the doctor had said, his gaze shifting away as if he couldn’t bear to meet my eyes. I asked him to repeat it, though the words were both a whisper and a scream at once. I wanted to disappear. He explained the procedure I would need to undergo soon, but I nodded blankly, unable to process it. “You might want to take some time off work,” he added. Work? What was he talking about? My mind couldn’t grasp the gravity of his words.
“The baby has no heartbeat,” I echoed as we left, as if repeating it would somehow make it more comprehensible. Outside, the brightness of the day and the chatter of people felt like a cruel joke. I realized I would have to carry this lifeless body inside me for the next four days. I wanted to either have him removed immediately or keep him forever. I kept hoping maybe they’d made a mistake.
Returning home felt unbearable. “I can’t stay here. We have to go,” I told Alex, unable to face the nursery door. He didn’t argue and quickly booked us a weekend at a resort in Arizona. But once there, I barely left the bed. “It’s lovely outside, Lisa,” he would say, opening the curtains each morning, but I just turned away, leaving him to wander alone or play video games into the night. We barely spoke.
He wanted to reassure me, “We can try again. The doctor said it’ll be okay.” But I had spent countless hours folding tiny clothes and imagining names. I had felt him move inside me and planned his future. To me, he was real, and in an instant, he became a procedure. “You need to be hopeful,” Alex urged, his voice faltering under my angry glare. I resented his attempts to fix what couldn’t be fixed.
Now we were flying back to New York, and I was crying over a bag of plain chips.
Then, amid my tears, a hand appeared offering a tissue. I didn’t look up but took it gratefully, quickly soaking it through. Another tissue followed, and when I finally glanced up, I saw an older woman, elegant in a tailored suit, sitting beside me. Her presence was striking; her hair was styled beautifully, and her lips were painted a deep red. For the first time in days, someone was looking at me with compassion.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” she said softly. I blinked in surprise.
“We lost our baby,” I blurted out, instinctively cradling my still-swollen belly.
Her response was gentle, enveloping me in warmth. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, my dear.” I felt a wave of relief wash over me, a tiny release of some of the weight I was carrying.
“My partner wants me to eat, but he brought me these chips; I can’t stand them.” I held up the unopened bag. “I don’t know why I can’t stop crying,” I confessed, tears spilling again.
She nodded in understanding, her eyes never leaving mine. “There are pivotal moments in life, moments that change everything. You’ll never go back to the way it was,” she said, moving closer and taking my hand. As my sobs shook my body, I felt anchored for the first time in days. I held on tightly to her hand, a lifeline amidst my grief.
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