It was a Sunday. The Sunday after Ash Wednesday. Louie and I were attending Mass at St. Basil’s Church. We wanted to light a candle by the Sacred Heart of Jesus. There were no more candles. Louie stopped one of the deacons and asked him to pray for us and our baby. The deacon placed his hand on my belly and prayed for blessings. That Wednesday, I went in for my Level II ultrasound to check the status of the amniotic bands and to find out if Calvin was a girl or a boy. Instead, we were told that our baby died. Our first child was delivered into this world, silent and still on a Thursday.
It was a Sunday. The week of my first prenatal appointment. We were attending Mass at St. Catherine’s and told Deacon Bobby that I was pregnant again, and he said he would pray for us. I started spotting and cramping on Tuesday while I was at work. On Wednesday I woke up, and I was bleeding red. Two friends accompanied me to the ultrasound. There was an fluid-filled sac. They said it could be too early or a tubal pregnancy or a very early loss. I knew my dates weren’t off. I got my blood drawn. On Thursday, my Rainbow slipped out of my body on the anniversary of when I first saw her big brother’s heartbeat.
It was a Sunday. It was outside of the church, after Mass, when we told Father Kinane that I was pregnant again after losing two babies. He took my head in his hands and surrounded me in prayer. The next day I had an ultrasound that showed a yolk sac and what looked like a very small fetal pole. The following Tuesday, the sac looked empty. A week later, on a Wednesday, I had one last ultrasound (just to be sure) and my RE confirmed our baby was gone. No more yolk sac. No fetal pole. My third pregnancy ended on a Thursday, just a few weeks after her big brother’s 2nd anniversary in heaven.
With each of our babies, we were blessed on a Sunday, devastated on a Wednesday, and heartbroken on a Thursday. It really isn’t that simple though, is it?