The Missing Heartbeat

It came without warning.

Completely out of nowhere.

Suddenly a gut punch to the stomach, an overwhelming return of grief.

I was back in the cold sterile room, in that paper gown clutching the blanket.

Listening to the muffled voices through thin walls as the thump thump sounds arose. Distorted words of happiness and congratulations.

There I sat anxiously, holding on to a shred of hope, even as I felt the cramping and the crimson drops.

I longed so badly to hear the sounds of life inside me.

Instead I was greeted with a rough male voice that doubted whether I was telling the truth about the three positive tests, and worried about what he was going to eat for lunch.

As I walked away to await the news of what I knew I had already lost, I watched the happy couples with their pictures of life walk toward their future family.

A little over a year has passed, but the word ectopic still haunts me.

Most days I don’t think about it, life is too busy but I know it’s still part of my story.

A piece that will never fully disappear, a memory of what could have been. Little fingers wrapped around mine, a tuft of red hair, all the best parts of him and of me.

The little one that will never be.