Before I knew we’d struggle with infertility, I imagined a June baby. My husband and I both have June birthdays. A baby born in the same month as us sounded so sweet. We’d pack in all sorts of birthday fun in that month of June every year. It would be perfect. I never told anyone this. I didn’t even tell Jesse. Just a little secret I kept to myself; a small, silly wish. The further we got into the dark throes of infertility, the more I just wanted a baby. I didn’t care when he or she made their grand entrance. Pick the month, baby. We were waiting.
Earlier this fall we were finally able to transfer one of the three embryos we adopted. Money was saved and some raised by dear friends the months prior. Legal paperwork was completed and tests and psych evaluations done together were with our embryo donors. After some back and forth, we settled on a date that worked best with my cycle. The transfer would happen on October 9. I knew even before we did it that a baby resulting from this transfer would likely be born in June. A June baby. Our June baby.
I couldn’t wait for the blood test. I took a home pregnancy test a few days before I was supposed to go into the doctor to officially find out. For the first time in our four years of trying, we saw that second line. It worked. We were pregnant with our June baby.
The next several weeks were happy days. Telling our parents. Telling a few friends. Telling a few more friends. And then a few more. I was so tired. Jesse had a picture of me on his phone sleeping on the couch the minute I got home from work. And when I was awake, I couldn’t stop eating white cheddar Cheezit crackers. Jesse even willingly drove me to Applebee’s for French Onion Soup a few times a week because it was all I could think about. We saw a flickering heartbeat. Not once, but twice. I was feeling pregnant. I was actually pregnant. And with a June baby!
One more ultrasound was what I was telling myself I needed to feel a little more sure of things. We were in our 8th week. They say your chance of loss goes down after you see a heartbeat. I felt a bit more confident each time we saw that flicker. Of course I was so happy, but finally being pregnant after four years of a big fat nothing, anxiety definitely got the best of me. We scheduled our third ultrasound for a Wednesday morning. We drove separately so we could each head into work after we got to say a quick hello to our sweet June baby.
It was there where we learned that our June baby was no longer. Our long awaited baby’s heart had stopped beating sometime between our last ultrasound eight days prior. Based on the growth, it appeared it was maybe a few days after our second ultrasound. We were gutted. Devastated. We made the difficult decision to proceed with a D&C. Within 48 hours of learning our baby had died, my womb was empty again.
Our dear June baby, how we longed for you. We felt you were a girl. We were pretty sure we even had a name chosen for you. As my body continues to heal, our hearts ache for you everyday. We will never be able to make sense of why you were only in our lives for such a short time. Why we tried so hard to have you, only for you to be taken away. You were here and so quickly gone. I want to do everything I can to never forget you; to never forget those weeks we had with you. Those precious days when I was officially a mom in the physical sense, and not just in my heart. The morning they transferred you into my tummy, the song “Here Comes The Sun” played on the nurse’s Pandora. It was the same song I walked down the aisle to when I married your dad.
“Little darling, it’s been a long, cold lonely winter.”
You were supposed to be the sun that came after our long, cold lonely winter. We’re reminded again that this season of sadness and longing might be here a bit longer than we were hoping. You’ll never be in our lives, nor will we physically hold you in our arms. It feels long, cold and lonely again knowing you won’t be here in June. But I know the sun will come again. The hope in our hearts remains strong. Your short time here with us made us believe that it can shine and always will again.