On the Ferris Wheel

The day we learned there was no heartbeat my husband and I emailed work and took the rest of the day off, claiming "bad news at the doctor." Then I put on a roast, fed the dogs, picked up my step-daughter from school, and, as promised, we took her to the fair. Life doesn't stop just because the one in your midsection decided to. 

I cried. I cried when we got home from the second ultrasound. I cried in the middle of our living room after the first ultrasound. I cried when I fed the dogs. And I cried over the crock pot.    

I cried in the car all the way to kindergarten. I stopped crying when we saw her, waiting in the pick up line. "How's the baby?" she asked. She knew we had gone to the doctor. We knew what we were going to tell her. "The baby isn't growing as fast as we thought," I said, "It's going to take a little longer for us to make that brother or sister." 

She seemed to take that in stride, contemplating it in her five year old little brain. I turned around and gave her what I still hope was a confident smile, "We're still working in it, everything is going to be okay." And there it was, the first verbalization that yes, everything was going to be okay. And I believed it, for a little bit.

We took her to the fair for two reasons, 1) I promised, and I believe in keeping promises, and 2) I needed to get out of the house.

Looking back I don't know if that was emotionally the best decision. What is worse, 1) staying at home in bed with the lights out and the covers over your head or 2) riding the Ferris wheel with a frantically giggly five year and a dead fetus in your uterus? Funnel cake never tasted so bad. 

My body had not expelled the baby. In fact, I learned this a week later, my body was still operating business as usual. It's going to come out, the doctor had said, either naturally or surgically but the baby is going to have to come out. And that's a scary thought. 

"When?" I asked.

"Anytime."

"How?"

"You'll feel cramps and there will probably be a lot of blood."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Call me in two weeks."

Two weeks. Sitting in the Sky Ride looking out over the fair grounds I turned that conversation over and over in my head. Two weeks. Dead baby. No heartbeat. Lots of blood.

If a cable broke and our Sky Ride car fell to the parking lot I would not have been even the least bit surprised.