I knew there was a good chance we would never know for certain what happened to our baby, why he died in the womb at 27 weeks’ gestation, 13 weeks before he was due to join us and several weeks before he would have been even remotely okay if he was born alive. Even though I knew the likelihood of not finding an answer, it still makes me mad and scared out of my mind. There’s just nothing I can do about it.
All dozen blood tests came back normal. My blood is normal. My genes are normal. I am not carrying any crazy infections, diseases, or mutations that could have caused him to die. This means they don’t have any more tests for me. And because Wyatt’s chromosome test was good, they don’t even have to look at Hubby (which is a shame because I bet he is a huge blood-test wimp). While this is great news for a future pregnancy (12 fewer things to worry about—out of the now million running through my head, great), it is crappy news for Wyatt. Why can’t we figure it out? Why can’t we get an answer? It stinks thinking we’ll have to go with the doctors’ “most likely it was _____” explanations. In our case, it was the umbilical cord—the wrong color and shape, too small near his little belly-button-to-be. But it’s only “most likely” that was the cause. So what “really” was it? Oh, how I wish I could know. Maybe he can tell me when we meet again someday.
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