A story of almosts, echoes, and a love that bloomed before the knowing
Before I knew you, I was losing you.
For three weeks, I watched you leave — circling the drain in the tub, washed away by the water. A long goodbye. A quiet one. A constant reminder that you were here once, but you were leaving now.
This happened. And I won't act like it didn't. I won't whisper about it behind closed doors or tuck it away like something shameful. Because if I pretend it didn't happen, it’s like pretending you didn't. And you did. You were here. Maybe not for long. Maybe not in the way people understand. But you were.
I never heard your heartbeat, never saw you on a grainy screen. You didn't have fingers or toes yet that should have one day grasped my hand. Some would say you were nobody, just cells and timing and bad luck. But I know better. You were somebody to me. Somebody to us.
You were mine. You were his. You were Caleb’s. You were his sibling — brother or sister, we’ll never know now.
Would you have carried our fire — that quiet, steady stubbornness stitched into your brother and me? Would you have worn your heart wide open, like your dad? Come into the world with a full head of hair and a rhythm in your bones, dancing like Caleb does when no one’s watching? Would you have been a reader, curled up in corners with books like I was? A gamer, lost in worlds like your father? Or maybe — just maybe — you would’ve been none of those things at all. And oh, how we would’ve loved you anyway.
Who you could have been.
I will spend the rest of my days remembering you and dreaming about you who may have grown to become. I will sit quietly in the fall, when you should have been here, and ache for the sound of you
I didn’t even know you existed until you were already leaving. Isn’t that strange? But once I knew of you, I wanted desperately to keep you. It’s a cruel thing — to receive the best news and the worst news in practically the same breath.
Last Tuesday, after weeks of irregular bleeding, I went to my OB’s office to figure out what was going on. I sat in the exam room, staring ahead, bracing myself. My doctor came in briskly, skipping his usual jokes. “So your pregnancy test is positive,” he said, before even sitting down. “This obviously complicates things.”
Even though I already knew, even though I knew it wasn’t good — I felt the corners of my lips lift, just slightly. “Really?” I asked. “But… with this much bleeding, for this long, is there any chance the baby could… you know… make it?”
I new before I officially knew: no.
Three blood draws, two days apart. A week of waiting, living in limbo. HCG levels rising, but not how they should. There was no hope. But still, somehow, there was.
There’s always hope — until there isn’t.
Yesterday, I spent the day at the hospital under anesthesia, undergoing a D&C. The operation revealed what we feared: an ectopic pregnancy. And I’m thankful I listened to my gut and went to the doctor when I did — because ectopic pregnancies can be fatal.
Now I'm left confused. Scared. My first pregnancy was healthy. Why wasn’t this one? I don’t have any of the risk factors. We keep asking ourselves, “Why us?” And now, we wait again — to see if the Methotrexate treatment I received afterward will do what it’s supposed to: rid my body of what’s left.
It all feels surreal.
A week before that first appointment, I found myself standing in the breakfast aisle with chocolate milk and banana nut granola in my cart — two things I hadn’t bought since I was pregnant with Caleb. I didn’t plan it. I just grabbed them without thinking. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Halfway down the aisle, I paused. Why those? I thought. Why now? A tiny suspicion stirred. I brushed it away. I couldn’t be pregnant… could I? The timing didn’t make sense. But still — my body was reaching before my brain had caught up.
Just a few days later, I got my answer in that tiny exam room... but not the one we wanted. We didn't want it followed with: "but something isn't right."
So now, we sit with it, knowing that our world will forever seem a little... not right. You should have been here when the leaves began to fall. We should have brought you home in the crisp October air. Your first Christmas should have come with tiny pajamas and ornaments bearing your name.
But instead…
I’ll spend my days remembering you. Missing you. Wondering who you would have become.
You left before I knew you. But not before my heart did.
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