Two Exams: By Justin Esposito

The due date was set for mid-October. Danielle and I share an intense love of fall, so we were thrilled our first child was to be born in our favorite month and season. But it was just March, and the leaves weren’t even really on the trees yet for spring.

The nurse moved the little black microphone around on my wife’s bare belly. “Sometimes with a tipped uterus it’s extra tough to find the heartbeat,” she said, still concentrating on the angle of the mic.

We listened to the obnoxious crackling coming from the speaker as the mic swept across Danielle’s skin. Minutes went by like hours—still nothing. “Don’t worry,” she said, looking at the obvious concern and fear in our eyes, “this happens all the time.” She jammed it back into her belly, giving it a little twist this time, looking… looking for the heartbeat.

“But the baby could still be ok, right?” one of us asked. I don’t remember which of us was talking at this point. I don’t really remember how the exam ended, either. I remember we had to reschedule to come in for an ultrasound. You know, a visual ultrasound, so that we could have our fears laid to rest when the better and more sensitive equipment picked up the little rapid-fire heartbeat of our first child.

“Please don’t be worried,” she said as we left.

We only had to wait several days, but they dragged by, full of prayers and reassurances. There were no clear emotions, just waiting. Going to work, coming home; “what’s for dinner?”

“Wanna go to Moe’s?”

“Ew, no. Mexican makes me feel sick.”

“Well that’s a good sign right? That your body is still pregnant?”

But there were no feelings of certainty or peace—best to just wait and have hope. “Wanna try Netflix tonight?” It’s best to try and act like things are normal.

But as the day drew close, I think I remember a slight rise in my hopes. Of course the heart is still beating in there! I can’t wait to see this kid move his or her little limbs! So we met at the midwives’ office on a lunch break.

Time Warner Cable News droned on in the waiting room. Governor Cuomo was giving a speech somewhere…

“Danielle?” called the nurse. We jumped up and followed through the door.

“I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat right now.” I had seen it immediately as the black and white layers of my daughter’s lifeless body came on the monitor. I knew before she told us, yet what does she think she means “right now”? I was angry at the ultrasound tech.

No heartbeat “right now”? Like, do you expect it to be there if we check again in twenty minutes? Why didn’t you say “I’m sorry, your baby is not alive.”? Why couldn’t you just tell us straight? We were quickly steered into another exam room to wait for the midwife to come and explain everything to us. I don’t know if we were in shock, but in my mind I could not get over “right now.” I think we talked softly about that very thing—what had she meant? But I knew, and Danielle knew. Our first child had died before we ever got to see her, meet her… hold her. Like a bad dream, she was in the room with us, but forever out of reach. There she was, snuggled in the tipped womb right next to me, but not there.

All of this was over seven months ago, and I just wept openly for the first time as I began to write this. I’m not usually an emotionally bottled-up guy; in fact, I’m too sensitive and open most of the time. But with the loss of this little child, I haven’t had much of a clue what I’ve been feeling these months since we said goodbye. It’s like my heart has a secret room with a padlock over it, I lost the key, and I can’t pick the lock.

I know I will meet her on the day of resurrection, but that seems like a misty dream to me right now. Will she know me as her father? Will she know I didn’t know how to weep for her death? I have no idea.

Yet in whatever we go through, our hope can’t be in how well we handle things. Our hope has to be in the rock that is higher than us, higher than our weakness. Even though I can’t put the pieces together and figure out why she died, or why I’m numb, I rest my hope in the One who beat death for us. There will be answers someday.