A Reckoning: I am sorry I cannot find a heartbeat
I lost our baby at eight weeks.
The only thing anchoring me in that moment was the way S looked at me. His eyes—worried but steady—held me upright when everything else collapsed. But the guilt cut through me like a wire pulled tight. It went deeper than I knew guilt could go. I had one job: to keep this baby safe. And I failed. That’s how it felt. I had pulled him into this hope, let his otherwise logic-rooted brain wander into excitement—and I couldn’t give him the ending we both imagined.
I remember our six-week scan. The heartbeat—strong and steady. “Congratulations,” the sonographer smiled. I turned to him, proud. “How many more people need to tell you there’s a baby in there?” I teased. It felt official. Tangible. We were in it.
A week later, on the eve of a trip to Iceland, I turned to him with a weird sense in my gut. “Something doesn’t feel right,” I said. “Probably nothing. But I want to check before we get on that plane.”
I’d had a miscarriage before. So I booked a last-minute private scan on Harley Street. It felt like a splurge, but I couldn’t shake the instinct.
The place was calm, almost too calm. The receptionist smiled, said we could wait for S to arrive before we started. Just that moment of basic human consideration felt so foreign after years of NHS chaos—crammed waiting rooms, impersonal forms, and clinical monotony.
Of course, my brain drifted into fantasy mode: how much would private care cost? Could I swing it? What was the package price for a “peace of mind” pregnancy? It was easier to think about math than fear.
The sonographer welcomed me in. The room was lovely. Soft lighting. Calming tones. I started lifting my shirt, assuming we’d be doing a transvaginal scan.
“Oh no,” she said. “At seven weeks we can do an abdominal scan.”
Finally, I thought. I’ve graduated. This is real.
The gel was cold. Her probe moved across my belly. Silence. Then: “Could you empty your bladder? We’ll try vaginally. I’m having a bit of trouble seeing what I need.”
My stomach dropped. I knew. But I kept breathing. I kept saying, “It’ll be fine.” I’d already had one loss. Surely that was my bad luck used up. Surely this time was different.
S arrived just as I was walking back in. He smiled. I smiled. A very quiet panic was setting up camp inside me.
She scanned again. Probing. Searching.
And then she said the words that changed everything.
“I’m sorry. I can’t find a heartbeat.”
I gasped and sat up. Then immediately lay back down. “Not here. Don’t fall apart here,” my brain repeated. I looked for S. I couldn’t form words. Just: Is he okay? Am I? What do I do now?
She panicked. “Oh bless you. Are you okay? Are you alright?” she asked. Again and again. Her voice trembling.
Was I okay? What kind of question is that? I wanted to scream at her to shut up. To stop saying words that meant nothing. But I just stared at the ceiling.
She kept going—over and over, “Bless you… oh are you okay?” Eventually I turned and said, quietly but deadpan, “What do you need me to say to stop asking me that?”
It didn’t help. She asked again.
They moved us to a “private room” which was actually a breakroom. A man was making a sandwich. The smell of microwaved food hit me like a slap.
We sat in the corner. I don’t remember much. Just waves. Heavy, thick, hot waves of guilt and sadness. S held my hand. I couldn’t meet his eyes.
I thought about my father—how excited he’d been about becoming a grandfather. My mother, more stoic but still hopeful. S’s mum had just sent a text days earlier with name suggestions. We’d joked about calling them Nana and PopPop.
We didn’t have a name for the baby.
She came back. The technician. She blessed me again. She asked if I was okay. Again. Maybe she was trying to summon some cosmic forgiveness. Maybe she just didn’t know what else to say.
I said I was okay. I wasn’t. But she seemed relieved.
She handed us the scan results and a sealed envelope titled: Your Options.
We walked out. Foggy. Devastated. Silent. Every few minutes a gasp escaped from somewhere deep inside me. Like grief erupting through a crack.
We wandered into a restaurant. A woman nearby was on her phone—loud, obnoxious. Talking about her house in Spain.
Without thinking I snapped, “Will you shut up already?”
I immediately regretted it. But she paused her call, looked over, and said with surprising grace, “I’m very sorry for disturbing you.”
Cue floodgates. What kind of person yells at a stranger for speaking? I couldn’t even look at her.
I thought about paying for her lunch. Apologising. Making it right.
Before I could act, she stood to leave. Then paused.
“I’m truly sorry to have disturbed you,” she said. “Are you okay? I’m a counsellor.”
That moment lives in me. The softness in her voice. Her presence. Her decency.
All I could manage was a smile.
We still went to Iceland. It was his birthday. I wouldn’t let this take that from him. He said, “We can stay if you’re not up for it.” “No. Buck up and get on the plane,” I told myself. And we went. No whales. No Northern Lights. But snow. Blue Lagoon. Good food. Minimal tears. I wore the lingerie I’d packed—barely fit, bloated as I was. But I wore it. Because life had to move. Somewhere in that cold, I made a quiet decision. I would be okay. Because I had him. Because I still had something left. The guilt didn’t leave me. It still hasn’t.
But Iceland gave me space. To breathe. To gather. To plan. It gave me the clarity to pick up the phone. To call the specialist. To put on mascara. To write. With every word I wrote, the heaviness lifted, even just a little.
So I wrote. And here we are.
