5:10 am my alarm went off. Worst. Alarm. Ever. We slowly stumbled around the house trying not to wake Taylor while getting ready for the hospital. It is next to impossible to not wake our daughter, and of course it didn’t fail this time either. I am glad she was up because her good morning kiss and hug made the awful task ahead feel just a tiny bit more manageable. As we walked to the car in the pouring rain at 5:45am I could hear my daughter tapping on our big glass window trying to get my attention for a wave goodbye. I waved back at her and thought to myself how much I loved her. My sweet, innocent, little girl. Mommy will be better soon; I thought to myself as I settled into the truck.

The drive to the hospital was the longest and shortest ride of my life all at the same time. I didn’t want to be late but I also never wanted to arrive there either. Lots of deep breaths filled the silence between Matt and I. When we got close Matt said a prayer asking for everything to go smoothly and complication free and for us to have peace through it all.

We made our way up to same day surgery and tried our hardest to pull it together and get through the check in process. It was the last place on Earth I wanted to be. Everyone was smiling and joking around with the normal Friday morning office banter and inside jokes. People were checking in for shoulder surgeries and foot surgeries, the regular same day surgery stuff these clerks see day in and day out. When it came time for my paperwork to be checked and entered into the computer our clerk glanced over my chart and became much more sullen. You could tell she felt uncomfortable reading my diagnosis: MISCARRIAGE in nice bold letters. She fumbled around trying to figure out how to communicate with us. I’m sure talking about the weather crossed her mind and thankfully she decided to just get to business.

Waiting to be taken back into the pre-op room felt like a lifetime. We did our best to hold it together and not fall apart while watching all the normalcy around us. Didn’t they know we were suffering? Didn’t they know we just lost our baby? The truth is, they didn’t. The truth is that even when your world falls apart, the rest of the world keeps on spinning and life just goes on. You want it to stop in place, even for a moment; but it doesn’t.

My name was called and we were greeted by our nurse, Kerin. As we walked back to the room she lightly asked “So, how are you this morning?” and almost didn’t finish her sentence. I felt so bad, I knew she knew, and I knew she realized it wasn’t a great question to ask. I mustered up every piece of my being to squeak out “oh, just wonderful” in the most polite way I could humanly make happen at the time. An awkward silence followed until we arrived at the scale. Kerin couldn’t look me in the eyes, but she quietly said “I’m so sorry you have to be with us this morning.” as she recorded my weight in my chart. You could tell she was holding back her emotions.

Kerin managed to get it together before we got to our room just in time to start taking my vitals. She showed us where everything was for changing and asked Matt if she could bring him anything to drink. She asked me what she could do to make me more comfortable while I waited and I blurted out the only thing I knew to ask for: “Prayer. Please pray for us.” I could tell it caught her off guard, but she wasn’t offended.

After a while my IV was placed and I had answered a thousand of the same questions over and over again to all different people. Our anesthesiologist came in to introduce himself and answer any questions we had. I informed him that I metabolize anesthesia very quickly and was concerned about not being fully under during the procedure. He reassured us that I would be completely out and there was no chance of my remembering or being awake for any of it. He was a very burly guy who probably rode motorcycles in his off time. He was all business until this time. He looked at me and tried to reassure me about how often this procedure is done due to loss of a baby and that his team would take great care of me. I replied that it’s unfortunate they see it that often and he looked at me with watery eyes and blurted out: “It sucks. It just plain sucks, and I’m really sorry for you guys.” He quickly left our room after as his emotions had gotten the best of him.

There were only minutes left to count down before I would be wheeled into the operating room. Kerin tried desperately to make some small talk and reassure me about the level of care I would receive. The second of our three nurses slid open the door to our room and I knew the time had come. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I stared off into space trying to think of anything else but what was happening at that moment in time; I was not successful. Both nurses tried to reassure me of how everything would be just fine with the surgery. I told them I wasn’t afraid of the surgery, I was just unbelievably sad that we had lost our baby. They both nodded and turned away so I wouldn’t see the tears in their eyes, but I knew they were there.

The time had finally come. The conversations ended as our nurses looked at the clock. “It’s time to go now” Kerin said “Kiss your wife, you will see her in recovery soon.”

**Post from March 3, 2014