No Heartbeat
#1: Sixteen Weeks In
October 2000, Arlington, Virginia
By LAURA FRIES
It’s a golden Indian summer October day. The kind of day that screams for driving with the windows down, music blaring.
Sure, Mozart is what the experts recommend, but this is a day for jangly guitars and the Gin Blossoms. Even the hospital parking lot Nazi who always barks for exact change or chides missing tickets can’t quell a lighthearted mood.
I’m here for another prenatal visit. I’m sixteen weeks in with my second child. I know what to expect by now.
It’s so arrogant of me, I think later, to take nature for granted.
The nurses chitchat. The well ran dry during the drought. Brand-new school clothes don’t fit after only two months in - can you believe it? How am I feeling?
Past the rough part, I tell the doctor that I don’t even feel pregnant. She’s completely dispassionate when she announces moments later that she can’t find a heartbeat. She doesn’t even seem particularly alarmed.
As I wait for further confirmation, I’m thinking: this is all just a misunderstanding.
They tell me to call my husband, another family member - someone should drive me home. Nobody answers. Who would be inside on such a beautiful day?
I make it out of the office composed, but I can barely see through tears as I navigate the lot.
The parking attendant Nazi, a small Asian man, sits in his hot little booth waiting. He takes my ticket without looking and then, without fanfare, waves me through. No fare today.
He doesn’t know. But he knows.
Turning the corner, through the open window, I see that the sun is so bright, it catches the smallest watery glint in his eye.
A freelance writer for Parents’ Choice Foundation and a TV critic for Daily Variety magazine, Laura Fries has been writing about TV and film entertainment for more than 18 years. She continues to advocate for special-needs children, having lost her son and the baby featured in this story to a rare chromosome disorder. She lives with her husband, her daughter, and a small menagerie of pets in Alexandria, Virginia.
#2: Full Term
Oct. 27, 2003, Wilson Hospital, Binghamton, New York
By AMY SWINDLER
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said to me, as a mixture of sadness and duty swept across her face.
My only thought was that either the woman had no idea how to give horrible news or I was misunderstanding what she was saying. Certainly, she couldn’t be using two of what are arguably the most meaningless words in the English language to tell me that my full-term pregnancy had just perished.
With confusion on my face, I looked at my husband, whose lips were pursed in solemn silence, and then back at this woman. I shook my head as if to ask her, “Sorry about what?”
“There is no heartbeat.” The nurse had obviously been trying to think of the most tactful way to tell me that my baby was dead. It lay still inside of my obviously fully pregnant body, without life.
Are there words that can depict what to say after something like that? I could think of none.
“Oh,” was all I could say.
The nurse lingered. Out of stupid, feminine politeness, I wanted her to leave the room but didn’t want to be rude. So I just looked at my husband and asked him if he would call my mom and tell her.
“I … I can’t.”
I was feeling nothing at that particular moment for the loss of our first daughter. I was feeling anger at the nurse for standing there during, what seemed to me, an extremely private moment. I was feeling deep resentment toward my husband, who I felt should understand that a woman who had just lost her motherhood in an instant couldn’t handle “that” phone call right then.
But shock kept me from feeling any type of loss for our daughter. I shot an irritated look at my husband, picked up my cell phone, and felt what would be the first of many heart-stabbing ironies as I scrolled past “maternity ward” in my contacts list to call my mother.
Amy Swindler is a part-time freelance writer and full-time stay-at-home-mom to her two beautiful inspirations, Corbin and Brooke. Amy attributes her extraordinary life to her amazing husband, Tim, who supports her unconditionally in all ways possible, the most important of which is with love.
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12 Responses to “No Heartbeat”
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November 5th, 2007 at 12:10 am
Sad story.
I’m sorry for your loss.
I hope you were well compensated
for this work.
–John J.
November 5th, 2007 at 5:35 am
Laura, the callousness with which your situation was handled appalls me. It saddens me that people in a situation that deal with child birth have become so cold to a situation such as yours. Thank you for sharing your story.
November 5th, 2007 at 8:19 am
Amy-
The anguish you must have felt at that time I can’t possible imagine. A life experience to be etched in your mind forever!
November 5th, 2007 at 3:58 pm
wow amy. i knew your story, but never realy “knew” what had happened. it takes a strong person to handel loss at a moments notice, but even stronger person to carry on and keep on living.
November 5th, 2007 at 5:50 pm
Amy - What a terribly difficult moment in time that must have been for you and Tim. You have become such a loving and wonderful mother to your children and I know that your dear angel watches down on you each day and grateful for the time that she had inside your womb.
November 6th, 2007 at 5:51 am
I hope writing about this helps you to heal. It was very moving and engaging–just wanted to keep reading and reading because you write in with the kind of details that allow anyone to relate.
November 8th, 2007 at 4:48 pm
Having gone through two miscarriages, I can relate to your story. Nothing that anyone does or says really helps. When I heard “I’m sorry” or “you can try again”, I would tell myself, they mean well and just don’t know what to say. Afterwards, I did some research and was surprised to learn how common miscarriages are. Women need to know they are not alone. Thanks for sharing your story.
November 8th, 2007 at 5:55 pm
Amy~Even though I knew the story, I was still completely engaged and moved by your words. I’m glad that you were able to share your story with others and create something wonderful from this traumatic experience. xoxoxoxoxox
November 15th, 2007 at 9:05 pm
Amy — I am sorry for your loss. I experienced a similar event in 1989, followed by numerous mid-term miscarriages. Nothing anyone says ever takes away the pain. No one knows what you are going through, no matter how sympathetic they are. Family members, including husbands, tend to be at a loss as to what to do or say. The best thing anyone said to me was “I don’t know how you feel” - she didn’t trot out any inane platitudes and I was grateful for that.
I hope writing this piece helped you heal from the wounds.
November 16th, 2007 at 2:03 pm
Amy-
I’m so very sorry for your loss. My beautiful daughter Meghan was stillborn on September 7, 2007, at 41 weejs 4 days. I will not lie and tell you I know how you feel, because each persons pain is individual. I will tell you I grieve with you for our lost angels, and hold you and your family in my prayers.
November 17th, 2007 at 10:25 pm
Laura and Amy,thank you for great well writen stories.I cannt guess what the bot of you went through.My Wife and I are childless.we have been married 27 years this year,and that is the compensation that we draw from,that we have each other.Mike G.
December 4th, 2007 at 9:50 pm
Amy and Laura,
Thank you both for sharing your stories. I had a late miscarriage as well and was shocked with how most people responded to the news. The VERY best response I got was from a childhood friend, who, upon hearing the news was silent for a few moments and then very decidedly and lovingly said, \”Well…that SUCKS!\” It sounds so callous to read it now, but in that moment, I thought she was the most eloquent woman on the planet. It *did* suck. It still does, even all these years later. Blessings to you both. Jenn