Disclaimer: This story contains graphic details of miscarriage that may be triggering to some.
“We’re fighting again. Not like we used to. It used to be disagreements, a few dirty looks, maybe a raised voice then we would retreat until we missed each other.
No, not that fighting.
We’re yelling, we’re crying, I’m throwing clothes.
How can he not see this isn’t a bad thing?
How can I not see he’s not ready?
We fight until we are exhausted of talking over one another.
We are not on teams anymore.
We lay in the bed. Our bed. The bed we’ve been sharing for months. We cry again, but this time we hug.
I cannot give him what he wants.
He cannot give me what I want.
We go to work in the morning like life didn’t fall apart the night before.
I don’t want it to be this way. Why am I fighting my best friend like this? Why can’t I just give him what he wants?
I need to remember why I am risking the person I want to spend forever with.
I call the hospital and tell them I need to be seen, I need to see my baby.
I broke my own heart.
I come in 30 minutes later. We get the ultrasound up. My baby has so much fluid behind his neck. He has no nasal bone. Why does he have no nasal bone? Why is he curled up? What is wrong with my baby I am risking my best friend for?
We’re going to run tests, airman Gil. There is something wrong with my baby. Call me by my name. Call me Nadia and tell me what is wrong with my baby.
I text him. I tell him there’s something wrong with my baby. Our baby.
‘I’m so sorry, do you need me? I’ll come if you need me. No. I don’t need you. You wanted this.’
‘I will keep you updated.’
I go home. I don’t care that I should return to work. My baby is sick. My baby I am risking my best friend for is not healthy.
When I get home, all his things are gone. Like he was never there.
I don’t make it two steps past the house door. I lay there and I cry. I cannot move. I cannot breathe. I do not want to be here. My pain is too expansive. This is going to kill me.
Why is this happening to me? I am risking my best friend for you, why are you sick? Why are you going to break my heart in this way? How did I make you unhealthy? What did I do? How did I ruin you?
I text him that night after going to the store. I can’t get out of my car. I can’t see that empty house.
‘Please come. I can’t do this.’
‘On the way.’
He’s there so suddenly. Climbing into my car with me. Reaching across the console and holding me. I show him the picture of my baby. Our baby. Our baby with the fluid and missing nasal bone. Our baby I risked him for. We cry together. I don’t want to go in that empty house. I don’t want to be here.
He doesn’t let me give up. He gets me upstairs. He gets me into bed. He hugs me. He stays.
This repeats for 6 weeks.
I need him. He comes every time.
I do not run to him because it is our baby. I do not run to him because he is my best friend. I do not run to him because I love him. I run to him because he lets me cry and he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t try to make it okay. He lets me feel my pain and he feels it with me.
My friends are not this way.
‘Pray, Nadia.’ Don’t you think I’ve prayed to every God imaginable?
‘It’ll be okay, Nadia.’ My baby is dying inside of me. Are you kidding me?
‘Have faith Nadia, doctors are wrong all the time.’ So rather than just be here, feel this pain with me, you have to try to place hope in my heart? You must make me feel like I’m giving up on my baby? Our baby. Olivia. The girl.
They can’t just be here and feel my pain.
Why are we here? Why so much pain? Why is my baby sick? Our baby. What do I do? I don’t want him hurt. I can’t do it without him. I don’t want to be here. We were so happy.
Why did I get pregnant? I wish I never got pregnant. I am dying as my daughter dies within me. I am dying as I watch my best friend fall apart because of me. Because of my daughter. Our daughter.
I text him one night.
Please be at the appointment. I have a feeling.
I will be there.
June 14th.
She’s dead.
She is gone.
There is no heartbeat.
I can’t see the smiling baby with the hazel eyes. His hazel eyes. I will never see her. I will never hold her.
She’s dead. She died inside me. I was supposed to protect her. I am her mother. I failed her.
He is with me the whole time.
I have to feel it. I have to know she was real. I do it natural. Knowing she’s coming out without ever taking a breath makes it unbearable.
Please…let it be a dream. Please save the hazel-eyed baby. My baby. Our baby.
She is born at 5:33 a.m. on June 15th.
My little Olivia.
It happens so fast. He never leaves my side.
He can’t look at her. I look at her.
She is mine.
She is so small. She looks so peaceful.
My little Olivia.
Something died in me with my daughter. Something important.
When it’s over, he kisses my forehead.
‘You are so strong.’
He saves me with those words.
I am so strong.
My little Olivia.
I am so strong for you. I am so strong for your brother.
You are mine. I am yours.
My little Olivia.
I will never be able to accurately explain or describe the loss of my daughter. I will never be able to explain what it did to me, to him; to us. I will never be able to explain the despair; the nights he would come in and find me on the bathroom floor, kitchen floor, bedroom floor unable to move. I will never be able to explain knowing for 6 weeks the baby growing inside me will never live. Looking back, I do not know how I survived it. I do not know how he survived me. I was dying. Every day, I was dying, and he never left me behind to die alone. He came and he sat through my pain.
There is no way to describe losing a child. There are no words for what it does to you.
All I know, is I survived.
And I continue to survive, not only for my son…
For my little Olivia.”
This story was submitted to Love What Matters by Nadia Gil. Follow Laura on Instagram here. Submit your story here, and subscribe to our best love stories here.
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