The heartbreak of almost: a modern miscarriage story

by Nora McInerny


I know what I’m seeing before she tells me.

I knew when the midwife excused herself from the examination room, claiming not to be an ultrasound expert. I knew when the ultrasound tech looked at the screen and recommended we move to her room, where the machinery is more advanced. I knew when I saw her face, and the tiny white figure hanging motionless on the monitor.

I knew the night before, even before Googling, that no blood is good blood when you’re pregnant.

My father once described the ultrasound photos I provided of Ralph as “an invasion of a baby’s privacy.” Babies dance along with the ultrasound machine, like a little alien trying to avoid detection, like a little white whale darting around your uterus hiding from Captain Ahab, like a little marionette.

But not this baby.

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