It’s my birthday. And my baby died yesterday. 

It was early. The signs were all there. With every positive pregnancy test, the cautiously enthusiastic nature of our excitement was tempered with reality. 

Blood tests said Yes. And then they said No. Within a six day span, I never felt so much joy, anxiety, and grief all in one. The ebbs and flows of tears are incessant. Women with protruding bellies walking down our sidewalk seem to possess a zombie like quality, as if coming to engulf my sorrow and drown me until the tears stop. Until the pain stops. Until everything stops. 

Today is my birthday. And my baby died yesterday. 

There are moments of delirium. Where you float out of your body. Looking down, watching the couple at the kitchen counter holding each other, sobbing. The sister enters the scene, carrying a variety of food and caffeine, not knowing which, or even if, they can make the situation better. Until she realizes the only thing helpful is to catch her older sister's body just as it starts to go limp, and crumble into her arms. The cries become wails. She rocks her back and forth, squeezing just enough, like a mother would have done with her newborn.

Today is my birthday. And my baby died yesterday. 

I’ve tried to rationalize it. Maybe if I rested more. Didn’t go on that hike. Maybe if I had just stayed home. Did I overheat? Was it one too many sips of coffee? Was I not supposed to sleep on my stomach? Is blue cheese unpasteurized? Shit. I should’ve stayed home. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. I shouldn’t have. I knew it. 

My mind speeds up, the computer screen glows, a googling rabbit hole of diagnosis stares back at me. Burning and branding my brain. Letting loose the apocalyptic demons and doomsday, pessimistic anger and hopelessness all wrapped up into one. I feel crazed, and numb, all at the same time. So, I cry. And click to the next site. 

Today is my birthday. And my baby died yesterday. 

I call my doctor. It’s been 5 hours with no nurse call back. Feels like five years, five lifetimes. I try to breathe in, the clock ticks at the back of my ear. Another minute reminder that I’m no longer pregnant. I’m no longer a safe home for my baby. My baby is gone. Doesn’t exist. They had nothing to hold on to. 

Progesterone has become common vernacular in our household these days, although the severity of its power is still beyond my comprehension. It’s been 5 hours and 15min with no nurse call back. Feels like five years, five lifetimes, and then some. A 9.6ng/mL to .62ng/mL. Gibberish, codes, fate. Please call us back. 

Today is my birthday. And my baby died yesterday.  

Michael’s eyes are red and glazed like glass. His hug is strong, disposition rationale. But those eyes. They say it all. The heartbreak is palpable. I feel dizzy. I find myself staring. Staring nowhere at all. I feel my heartbeat grow faster and my breath become shallower and my eyes become redder. Hide me in this bed, this blanket, let’s not start this day. 

Today is my birthday. And my baby died yesterday. 

It’s almost a poetic sick joke. Text messages from friends and little notes from family fill the air with a buzz and ping from my phone here and there. It’s been 5 and a half hours with no nurse call back. Birthday wishes are lost on this numb body and empty soul. I’m 34 years old today. Feels like five lifetimes and then some. How does one celebrate and mourn all at the same time? You don’t. You can’t. The surge of feelings are unbearable. 

Today is my birthday. And my baby died yesterday. 

The initial red of the miscarrage gave off an inviting pinkish tint at first glance. Somewhat of a tea party, welcoming to motherhood if you will. But seeing the blood slowly seeping through the toilet paper. I went numb. I stopped breathing. I screamed without making a sound. No no no no no no no no no no no. I ran to my phone and furiously typed with precise keyboard fingers (thanks texting skills), “blood first trimester pregnancy”. Terrified of what I would read... surprisingly “implantation” and “common” and “good signs” flooded the tiny screen. Ok. This could be ok. I sanity checked with two friends and while my mind was still on high alert, my body started to ease. “Please stay in there little one. Plant and grow those roots baby. Mama’s got you.” Turns out, I didn’t have them. 

Today is my birthday. And my baby died yesterday. 

I don’t know if this grief will pass. People say it’s not your fault, there’s nothing you could have done, at least you know now you can get pregnant, this happens all the time. But this was my baby. My first baby. How can you justify the loss? An utterly sad, inexplicable, cloud of fear is hovering. I know the bright spots will peak through one day, but for now, I’m going to curl into my tears and lay with my anger, feel myself shake with each cry that comes out. 

It’s been 6 hours and no word from the nurse. It feels lonely here. In my body. In my mind. In my breath. Today is my birthday. And my baby died yesterday.