I’ll get straight to the point: the baby inside Sarah is dead. By the estimate of the ultrasound technician, it probably died during the eighth week of pregnancy.
Now we have to wait for Sarah’s body to reject the embryo. In the meantime, she will continue to suffer morning sickness and an insatiable appetite. Talk about salt in the wounds.
Cue all of your favourite clichés: it’s just one of those things, it just wasn’t meant to be, it’ll be better next time, etc.
Ever the pragmatist, I’m tempering my disappointment with the knowledge that it could be a lot worse. Better now than after 36 weeks. Losing an embryo is better than losing a foetus. I mean, some people in this world get to shoulder the burden of losing a real, live child. When all is said and done, this was just a blob. Shit happens.
Sarah’s sad, of course, but also pragmatic. She’s not worried, just keen to consign the present to the past and progress to the next pregnancy.
Oh well.