The Timeline

20 February 2012 was a special day. It was my best friend's birthday, and on the same day, I received the best news ever: I found out I was five weeks pregnant. I giddily looked at the two pink lines and shared the news with the people who mattered.

An answered prayer.

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Towards the beginning of my sixth week, I had an episode of slight spotting. Brownish, not red (sorry, TMI). I was trying not to panic and had the presence of mind to SMS my doctor. She advised immediate bed rest plus continued medication.

I immediately complied.

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A few days after the spotting episode, my doctor called me and told me to come in for an ultrasound. Now. I stilled my frantic heart and told myself she will take good care of us.

And she did.

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At the doctor's clinic, I looked at the monitor and the doctor explained that there was a subchorionic hemorrhage. Nothing to be alarmed over, but still, I needed to take it easy.

I also saw the beginnings of a tiny, tiny heartbeat. 109 beats per minute, to be exact. At that point, the shape was still unrecognisable, but the signs of life were unmistakable. I held the blurry pictures and felt my happiness spill over. I shared the moment with my husband and anybody else who cared to listen.

We were elated.

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I promised my little one that I will do everything to take care of him/her. I avoided too much movements and confined myself within my bed as much as I could (I even skipped dinner with an aunt who came home from the UK. Didn't want to take any chances). I took my medication religiously. I ate whatever I could (which wasn't much, considering I hated the smell of food. But I still tried my best to keep everything down.). I prayed for the little one.

And I also said, whatever happens: Your will be done.

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16 March 2012; two days before my 36th birthday. After weeks of staying at home, in bed, it was a full day for me. I was scheduled for laboratory tests: routine urinalysis, an oral glucose challenge test (OGCT) and a repeat ultrasound.

I took my lab results to my doctor and then went back down for the repeat ultrasound. Doc said she would wait for me so we can finish my consultation.

It was a day I wish had never come.

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I've discovered a few of the saddest things at the end of my 35th year.

Going into a hospital happy, optimistic, and expectant. Then going out a few hours later, empty, numb and devastated.

Looking at the first sonogram and remembering the beginnings of a tiny heartbeat. Then looking at the latest one and seeing that flatline.

Reading the words "good cardiac activity" the first time. Then hearing the words "fetal demise" and "pathologist" in one sentence and realising it was meant for you.

That sometimes the tears just won't stop. And you look at your husband's eyes and see your grief magnified a thousand times over. 

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We drove home in total, shocked silence. Our dreams were crushed, but we had no words to say it out loud.

I looked outside the car window and recalled the surreal experience at the hospital. The sonologist asking me what the baby's previous heartbeat was. Then telling me in a voice devoid of any emotion that there was no cardiac activity detected (he even showed me a flatline with the word "ABSENT" in all caps). I recalled how the world tipped slightly out of balance at that very moment; I thought, how could I tell my husband and my son? Was there anything I could have done differently? How can I "un-tell" everyone I shared the good news with?

WHY?

And as our car whizzed past a Jollibee store, I saw the happy red-and-yellow bee smiling at me. Mocking me for no reason at all. That's when I heard a loud cry of pain. Deep, inconsolable, primal.

And I realised it was me.