These are the words my wife whispered as we lay together in bed that night. Wondering why on earth she'd be apologizing to me, I turned to see tears slowly making their way down her cheeks. She was looking down at her five-month belly...gently running her hands over it as though she were trying to comfort the baby inside.
And that's when I realized that I'd never comprehend the heartache she was experiencing, even though we were both going through the same devastating loss.
Earlier that afternoon, we were sitting in an ultrasound exam room. Well, I was sitting. My wife was lying on her back as a probe inched its way over the goop on her stomach. Just as we had with our son Michael, we stared at the ultrasound screen trying to make sense of the black and white shadows. To us, it all looked routine and my wife asked what we both felt would be a rhetorical question, "Does everything look ok?"
"Well," our doctor said with a solemn pause, "no."
We were already holding hands throughout the ultrasound but we each simultaneously clenched harder when we heard this. My mouth went dry, my face went numb, and my heart upped its beat.
I can't adequately describe the emotions surging through me as the screen faded to black, but the only words that come to mind are "total emptiness". I felt absolutely helpless. Here my wife was lying on an examination table and all I wanted to do was hold her.
Our doctor did a wonderful job of explaining what was wrong and did so with great care. Sadly, our baby had numerous heart and health abnormalities, and while rehashing all of the medical jargon isn't something I want to do, a Level II ultrasound confirmed that our baby had a zero chance for survival in or out of the womb. Even worse, my wife's health was now at risk.
I really can't convey just how awful it is to have to sit there and listen to all the reasons why your baby isn't going to make it, but that isn't nearly as difficult as walking back to the car afterwards. It was surreal. We had every reason to thank God walking in and every reason to question him walking out.
As if the news wasn't bad enough, we were informed that my wife would have to carry the baby another week, at which time she'd have to endure a still birth.
How could my wife possibly cope with this? How could she go out in public when everyone wants to rub her tummy or discuss baby names? How could she bask in the glow of pregnancy when all she can think about is the struggle for life taking place inside of her?
It felt as though five months of joy and anticipation had been callously ripped from our hearts. Our dream of having a baby girl was granted...and now she was being taken away. We just didn't understand.
Over the following weeks, we were treated to stories about other people's miscarriages as though it was therapeutic. Let me say this, if someone you know ever suffers a miscarriage...whether early on in the pregnancy or in a later stage like us, simply offer your thoughts and prayers. Trying to comfort the parents with stories about how common it is won't help the healing process. We almost felt as though we didn't have the right to grieve.
As bad as I felt, I felt a million times worse for my wife. She didn't blame fate, she blamed herself, and here she was apologizing to our baby as though she had somehow failed her.
As the father, I certainly felt a bond with my unborn daughter, but I realized at this very moment that it paled in comparison to the bond my wife had forged with Devyn as she was nestled inside the womb.
I don't mean to imply that the emotional attachment a father feels towards his unborn baby isn't genuine, I simply feel that it cannot compare to the intensity of a mother's bond or the level of responsibility she feels for her baby.
This in mind, I felt powerless and could do little more than hold her as we cried. I couldn't say "I know how you feel," because I didn't. I couldn't tell her "everything's ok", because it wasn't. What I could say was, "I love you", because I did. And so began the healing process.
In the weeks following the still birth, we eventually came to grips with the loss. Instead of feeling resentment over dashed joy and anticipation, we began to treasure the moments she gave us from the womb...every kick, push and twist. Today, her footprints adorn a card in our memory box and a photo of her tiny feet from underneath a blanket is among our favorite images.
This experience gave each of us a new appreciation for the miracle of life and we ultimately made the decision to place our faith in God and try again.
Today, with memories of Devyn's kicks and ultrasound silhouette still with us, we cradle our now 5-month old baby girl, Kamryn, knowing just how fortunate and blessed we are to have her in our lives.
And when I see my wife rocking Kamryn to sleep while looking down at her with that motherly "I Love You" gaze, I can't help but stop and stare at the two ladies in my life...and think about the one in my heart.
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