I'll never forget the shock of that day. Being alone; no thought that something was terribly wrong. Coming back with the Saint later in the day to have another ultrasound, done by the technician, because my doctor was hoping beyond hope that she was wrong.
Having to go to the hospital two days later to have a baby I knew was dead. Having my milk come in because my body didn't know there wasn't a baby to feed. Not wanting to leave the house because I couldn't face anyone. I didn't want to have to talk about it. And I certainly didn't want to see anyone else with a baby.
I was sad and I was angry. For many years I couldn't talk about it without crying. I still think to myself: "He would be ten. He would be in fourth grade. He would play these sports with these kids." And I wonder what our lives would be like.
At the time I thought this was the worst thing that could happen to us. That would ever happen to us. I was wrong. There are worse things.