I went to work and sent an email around the office informing everyone my baby was going to die either before or shortly after birth and asked everyone to respect how difficult it was for me. Blessedly, there were a few who reached out to me and felt free to speak with me about my pregnancy. I am sure it was difficult and uncomfortable for them. Words mean everything sometimes. I knew no one who had gone through what I was going through and my husband could not even relate to what I was experiencing. He could go to work and perhaps sometimes be able to leave it all behind for a while. I carried it with me literally. Every time our child moved from within it filled me with joy and reminded me that our time together was short. I worried that every kick would be the last and often just sat and prodded my poor belly until I felt movement. My husband could be out and about by himself without receiving questions about the baby.
I felt that the words "My baby is going to die" were emblazoned on my forehead. That somehow everyone could see the sadness in my eyes and the burden in my heart. I saw pregnant bellies and newborn babies everywhere. I indulged my pregnancy cravings and fed my grief and my belly betrayed my desire to just disappear. Questions followed about my pregnancy. Each one was an on the spot decision as to whether to acknowledge the depth of our situation or simply politely answer and question and move on. I felt as though I had the most rarest and ugliest of diseases. One that no one wanted to talk about, even if they knew I had it. I am sure some meant well and hoped not to cause me additional pain. The silence was deafening.