Hannah

Her laughter echoes around the room. After two early miscarriages, she has reached the second trimester in her fifth pregnancy. With two live children and two in heaven, she looks forward to actually giving birth to this one.

Every day she holds him or her safely in her womb is a gift. Every appointment that shows the growth of her uterus, the amazing sounds of the baby's heartbeat, brings hope. This is especially true as she moves from 12 to 13 weeks. The most dangerous time is over.

She feels free to get out the tiny clothes her sons have way outgrown and start getting them ready for the new baby. The little one’s latest ultrasound is hung on the fridge. They start shopping for front carriers, a new car seat, and stroller. Not buying yet but the window shopping was more intentional. They have a real discussion about names.

“Elijah or Hannah.” They decide. It was always Hannah. All the boys would have been Hannah, well the first one anyway. With two handsome sons, that they love so very much, still they do hope this one is a daughter.

Her Kentucky grandma had four sons before having four daughters. Eight children were a normal thing then but now. No she won't be having a football team before having a cheerleader. One more, whether Elijah or Hannah. A healthy strong child is what's most important, no matter the sex.

So, with all this decided and the most dangerous time past, they settle in to await the birth of their baby.

The boys are excited. They, of course, want another brother. At night, as she reads to them, they rest against her small bump patting it. They talk to it, sing to it. It is the sweetest thing.

The fourth month blends into the fifth and she feels the first flutters. Tears ran down her eyes. Life. Yes, she saw her child move on the ultrasound, heard its heartbeat, but felt it move, something that hadn't happened since her fifth month with her second son. The other two, the losses hadn't gotten that far.

The first happened at 12 weeks. The second at 9 weeks. To get to five months and feel that wonderful quickening is a gift.

They enter the doctor's office for the latest exam and ultrasound. It is seven days away from six months. She is able to wear maternity clothes now. The bump stands proudly in front of her. She absently rubs it as she answers the nurse ‘s standard questions. Even the weigh in doesn't bother her. Every pound shows the growth of her child.

The technician comes in to do the ultrasound. They should find out whether it is Hannah or Elijah today.

Everyone is all smiles as her shirt is lifted and the gel is placed in her bump. The technician starts to move it around.

It takes a moment before they realize something isn't right. It is the silence, the lack of that wonderful sound of a quickly beating heart.

“Have you been feeling movement?”

They know then. Even before she turns her head away.

“Tell us.” Her husband demands.

“I will get the doctor.” Is her soft answer.

He tries to give them a small amount of hope.

“We will do a more advanced ultrasound. We don't know yet.”

Sitting in the waiting room, neither said anything. What is there to say? Her body has failed her again.

The room is quiet. None of the joy that usually accompanies a prenatal ultrasound is there. Instead a feeling of doom fills the room. The technician keeps the monitor turned away. Not a word is said as she does the exam before walking out of the room.

“I’m sorry.” Those two words are enough to blow away the last gasping breath of hope. She starts to cry.

They don't think to ask the sex of the baby.

The discussion moves to what to do now. They have two choices.

“We can evacuate the womb by a D and C or place you in labor and have you deliver.”

She doesn't have to think about it. Yes, her child is dead. Still the idea of tearing it to pieces, no!

Labor will be started, heavily medicated labor. One mercy. She won't feel it.

She lays in the hospital bed, staring at nothing. Her husband has one hand, her mom the other. They hold her there, give her a feeling of presence while she lives deep inside herself with her dead baby.

The nurses that move in and out of the room as the labor is started can't meet her eyes. It is alright as she is too deep inside her own grief to even see them.

The medicine places her in a type of twilight sleep. It is ironic that she is delivering her child in the same way her mom had her twenty-nine years earlier.

As the birth approaches as the sun rises, her husband can't take it and slips away. When the time comes for the baby to be born, it is just her and her mom.

She slips out without a push. More falls out. The nurse wraps her in a blanket before offering her to her mommy and grandma. Hannah will be the only daughter she has, born still and quiet as a grave.

They cradle her, examining her tiny finger and toes. Memorizing her feathering eyelashes, that fall so beautifully against her cheeks. Her eyes are eternally closed. Her fingers were long and tampered. Pianist fingers. Her hair is dark with the soft whirls that draw parents to breathe them in. A beautiful child.

They rock her, talk to her, they say goodbye. It was right that it is just the woman, her and her mom, with the precious child. The women saying goodbye to the only daughter that will be born into the family.

They keep her as long as they can. When the nurse comes to get her, she is loath to give her up. Finally, she lets her go. When she carries her out, the silence is as deep as her empty womb.