You were bigger than the whole sky.

I should be 10 weeks and 3 days. But there’s no baby in the ultrasound.

My doctor says I have a blighted ovum. Baby either never developed, or began growing but then something went wrong and baby dissolved; however, my body hasn’t recognized this yet, and the gestational sac is still growing. But it’s empty.

Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness

Because it’s all over, it’s not meant to be

So week ten is just me saying goodbye. Goodbye to my baby that’s been gone for a while, or perhaps was never there. I don’t feel numb, I don’t feel empty, I feel. Every emotion washes over me like the tide coming in. And just when I’ve stood back up and wiped the salt water from my eyes, another wave sweeps me off my feet again.

Strangely, I don’t feel angry. I’m not mad at God. I truly, wholeheartedly believe that everything happens for a reason. I’m not mad at my doctor. She was so kind, so gentle and so encouraging. I’m not mad at myself. “This happens to one in five pregnancies,” my doctor said. “Sadly, this is just that one in five.”

A couple of weeks ago I stopped talking to baby bean. I don’t know when exactly, I don’t know why. I just noticed that I hadn’t been talking to little bean, hadn’t been telling her I love you, hadn’t been rubbing my belly and singing to her anymore. I wonder if that’s when it happened, if my body was trying to tell me subconsciously that she was gone. Or perhaps she was never there, and I simply was - in a way - coming to realize it.

I ache. My head aches from crying, my heart aches from loss.

I’m never gonna meet what could have been, would have been, what should have been you.

I feel silly, in a way. Women have suffered far more traumatic miscarriages and stillbirths and lost children. But this is my baby, my hopes for the future dashed, my loss to grieve and mourn.

I knew, looking at the ultrasound on that screen, that something wasn’t right. It didn’t look like what it was supposed to look like. There was no fuzzy little bean-shape, just a gaping black hole. My doctor held my hand as I cried, trying to no avail to choke back the tears. She explained that I would need to take some medicine to bleed out the gestational sac and fluid, and that if that didn’t work I’d need a D&C.

My heart feels shattered in a million pieces. I threw away all those pregnancy tests I’d taken and saved. I deleted the “bump” pictures from my phone. I deactivated the pregnancy tracker apps and left the expecting-moms-groups on Facebook.

Now I’ve got to tell everyone who was so excited for this baby. My in-laws, who cried and laughed and clapped their hands and screamed with joy when we told them. My parents, who were in delighted shock. My grandparents, who have already bought a laundry basket full of onesies and a crib for this baby.

Our family is so supportive and has called, texted, and shown us so much love the past couple of days; but I know their hearts are hurting too.

So many regrets. Why did I tell everyone so early? Why wouldn’t that ultrasound tech do the 6-week ultrasound like I’d asked? Why couldn’t I have just started bleeding and miscarried normally, instead of showing up so excited for my first ultrasound and having to sob uncontrollably in the OB’s office?

Does life go back to normal now? I can drink my wine, my full-caf coffee, take a steaming hot bath and eat sushi again. But somehow I don’t even want to do that. How do I put away the tiny Air-Jordans we bought, the pregnancy books I’m halfway through, the onesies, and the maternity clothes I’d already bought… and just go on like nothing has changed?

Or even trying to get pregnant again - how can I do that? I was so anxious this time, and the pain I feel now is so sharp. How can I go through this again? I don’t know if I want to. My doctor says I have a heart-shaped uterus - or “bicornuate,” according to Google - and that future pregnancies could put me at higher risk. I’m scared. I’m scared of a D&C. I’m scared of going through this again. I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt like this.

I’ve got a lot to pine about, I’ve got a lot to live without.

I try not to listen to the sad songs on my playlist, but it’s hard not to. I’m simply not in the mood for anything upbeat. I play Tell Me What to Do by SHINee and Bigger Than the Whole Sky by Taylor Swift on repeat the whole hour-long drive home from my OB’s office. I oscillate between moments of listless calm and moments of screaming in agony, where I’m crying so hard I can barely see the road. Rain is pouring down, and my windshield wipers are working double time. I need some of those for my eyes.

Women have gone through far worse for thousands of years. How?

I don’t know what I would do without the support system we have. I don’t know what I’d do without my husband, who has cried with me and is grieving with me and praying for healing for me. He’s my rock, my comfort, my safe place.

Likewise, our friends and family have truly offered us so much love and support. I am hurting, but I am reminded of the goodness of God, the kindness of our church family, and how incredibly blessed we are.

Everything happens for a reason. I cling to this, and to the truth that my God is a good God who sees all things, who knows the future and knows what is best. My mantra is not what it was three weeks ago.

Everything happens for a reason, I tell myself. Everything happens for a reason.