The Hardest Part

"The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you get one more yard
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part."

--The Waiting, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

The funny thing about talking about pregnancy loss—if there is anything funny at all—is that most people didn’t even know we were pregnant. For most women, like me, pregnancy loss happens early in the game (confirmed just before 8 weeks), before you’ve even had the chance to share the good news.

The response is mixed. In addition to the compassion, there is a lot of surprise: “We didn’t even know you were trying!”

In our case, there are lots of questions about how it all happened… literally, how the baby was conceived, because two years ago, I froze my eggs.

And then we get to say how it was just a little surprise, just nature doing Her thing, and how we were so happy, and how we hoped we’d defy the odds. Because plenty of women over 40 have healthy babies all the time, on their own, just by doing the things that humans do to make babies.

As much as we can console ourselves with how “this was a bonus” and “we weren’t even trying (!),” we cannot escape the reality that once we knew we were pregnant… we really wanted it to happen RIGHT NOW, JUST LIKE THIS.

But we didn’t defy the odds. Our little Nugget just didn't grow.

My logical, rational brain can say:

“This is the least bad of all the bad outcomes.”

“We didn’t do anything wrong. This was completely just a matter of the chromosomes not lining up well.”

“At least Mother Nature knew that the little Nugget wouldn’t thrive and made the decision for us.”

“Wow, at least we know how quickly I can conceive, and this bodes well for the future!”

“My body did all the right things.”

“We can totally try again, and if it doesn’t work, we still have the frozen eggs.”

Yes, my brain can put all those thoughts together, over and over and backwards and forwards and on repeat. But they just will not touch the hole in my heart that is left by the absence of that little life that was part him, part me, and the most beautiful idea we ever had.

I know they will come. Those little toe-headed, blue-eyed, life-embracing, future-athlete, future geniuses are right around the corner. I can see their sweet little faces in my mind already.

I know this little Nugget wasn’t meant to be this time. But, I still cradle my arms, imagine kissing his or her little forehead, offer thanks for the hope that s/he gave us, and wish that I could really hold him or her in my arms next May like we thought we might.

Goodbye little Nugget (1.0). You will always be so beautiful to me.