“I’m sorry to have to tell you this but your baby has no heartbeat.”

I thought I was strong. I was a hockey fighter, I didn’t cry when Bambi’s mom died, and I had a tooth pulled without novocaine. But those fourteen words announced by the radiologist, five long agonizing minutes after the ultrasound technician had mumbled ominously “Wait here, the doctor will be in to discuss your results,” revealed otherwise.

I don’t know if the doctor said anything else. I heard my wife begin sobbing and instinctively reached to cover her like a hen covers its chicks. My mind emptied, and my eyes looked but didn’t see. Kelly’s wails brought me to myself, her grieving hands pulled on my shirt as if wanting to rip at something, to transfer the pain.

Nothing was said.

We found ourselves at my parents’ house. I just drove there because I didn’t want to go home. The beginnings of a baby’s room would add to the hurt, like a knife to the gut being twisted ninety degrees. It was in the familiar bathroom of my parents, that I allowed myself to weep.

Silently.

It scared me, like skydiving through a bottomless pit for the first time, falling uncontrollably to God knows where. I wanted to stop but couldn’t. I wanted to wail but daren’t. I’m a strong man and strong men don’t show weakness.

Crying is weakness. Dad tells the story of when he dislocated his collarbone during a football game and they reset it and he went back to the game. Or when he broke his radius falling off a tree and they aligned it without anesthetic before casting it. I’ve never forgotten the time he called me a sissy when I cried on our way to the dentist because of a toothache. I was six.

Kelly’s friends brought meals. I went to work.
She spoke to a counselor. I spoke to clients.
Kelly received medication for depression and insomnia. I suffered in silence.

“I’m ready to try again,” she announced, as we climbed into bed.

I was surprised. We had hardly kissed or cuddled and she was ready.

“Are you sure, baby? It’s only been three months since we buried our son.”

“I’ve never been surer,” she said, as she planted a passionate kiss on my mouth.

She was definitely ready. It was the type of kiss that always resulted in lovemaking. I knew that I was going to get lucky tonight. This kiss never failed to get me aroused.

Except for today. I pressed into the kiss but there was no movement. I caressed her buttocks. Nothing. I reached for and fondled her breasts to no avail.

“Hon, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I want to but I can’t.”

“Are you worried about me? I’m okay now. Thanks to you, our friends, and counseling, I’m healing. I may not be all the way back, but I know I’ll get there. I love you.”

She reached for me again. I turned away, my body shaking as I began to sob.

“I’m not back, Kelly. I need help.”