My heart was racing. Each wipe there was pink blood. I kept hoping it would stop. It had to stop. I was begging any internal power of my body to not progress with what I deep down knew was inevitably going to occur. Another loss. 

I texted my husband and told him I was bleeding, then proceeded to do the same with my OBGYN. My husband responded with supportive messages, but even in text I could hear his unease. I continued to bleed the same amount for most of the day. I still hadn’t heard from my doctor. By the late afternoon when leaving work I needed to check again. Bright red blood stained the paper. How long until this nightmare would end? Could I please have one of those scary, but very lucky cases where I bleed but get to keep my baby? Please, please, I begged internally. As much as I wanted that situation to will itself to life I knew it wouldn’t. I knew this wouldn’t be ending in anything less than loss and tears. I texted my husband to tell him I believed I was going to miscarry. 

20 minutes later I reached my son’s daycare and decided to cancel the massage I had booked for the following day. The sound of a calming friend’s voice answered and that’s all it took to break me. Attempting to hold back the sobs, and doing a shitty job at that, I told her I was having another loss and needed to cancel. I called my husband, my life support, and told him I was not okay and needed him to come home on time. My heart sank  as he cried in return to my words, saying he had gotten my text and was already packing up to be with me. My heart ached as I understood what he was going through. He lost any hope for this situation. He was already in mourning. A man that would prefer to swallow his emotions and find the logic in every situation was beaten down by the unfortunate circumstance that we were losing another pregnancy. Someone we hadn’t even met, but wanted to love so badly. 

As we met at the house I watched my husband carefully. His eye lids were swollen from the tears. His voice was somber even as he tried to put on a stronger persona for me. I had caused him this anguish. My body had failed all of us, again. 

I called my doctor that night. She titled it, “a threatened miscarriage”. I would be on bed rest the remaining of the weekend and not allowed to pick up my 17 month old son. 

The cramps were awful by the time we were ready to try and go to sleep. My husband was passed out while I was fighting to find some comfort through the pain. Eventually I just stayed in the bathroom until the pain passed. For all of that blood shed there was just one small clot. Maybe this could still be okay, my emotions pleaded with my logic. I still knew, though. Another loss. 

The next morning I immediately went into the bathroom. There it was. It just slipped right out. No horrible cramps, tons of blood and my 6-week fetus. I felt detached from my physical state. I just went through the motions of cleaning myself up and flushing. That empty feeling had returned, both figuratively and literally. No more hoping, no more begging my body to work with me.  Another loss. 

The days that proceeded just felt bland. Each thought of how ready I was for another child broke me over and over again. As simple as tearing up a piece of paper.