We arrived at the hospital the morning of September 4. While my husband parked the car, I started to make my way towards the 8th floor, where the obstetrician's clinic and birthing triage unit were located just down the hall from one another. I had walked these hallways many times before, but they felt different this time.

I arrived at the triage intake desk, and behind it was the same nurse I’d spoken with on the phone earlier that morning. She was friendly and reassuring. She directed me to a comfortable bench where I could wait until my name was called. Ryan joined me shortly after that, and we waited together nervously, both trying to act normally for fear of making the other panic. Trying to pretend it was just a routine check up. Neither of us were particularly convincing.

After a short wait, my name was called and we were ushered into a private room that looked similar to the room where we’d had our 20-week ultrasound. I climbed into the reclined examination chair. We waited in silence–no amount of binaine small talk could distract us from our growing inner concern. A young nurse joined us shortly after that–she was bubbly, gentle, and had kind eyes. I don’t remember her name, but I remember that she made me feel at ease.

She asked me to recount my story of the last few hours, and describe my symptoms. I kept repeating thatI couldn’t remember the last time I had felt our daughter move. But I was pretty sure she’d changed positions during the night...that had to count as movement, right? As I spoke she gently lifted my top to expose my round belly and felt around with her hands. She then squirted that familiar cold jelly on my skin and began to run the ultrasound wand across my tummy. My husband reached over and held my hand. We waited breathlessly for that familiar, beautiful “whooshing” sound of the baby’s heartbeat to fill the room. We needed the comfort of knowing that even if something was wrong, at least her little heart was still beating. But there was silence.

The nurse continued to move the wand around, pushing a bit harder into my sides. I tried not to let my inner concern rise to panic levels. It was clear she could sense our anxiety, so she smiled at us and said, “don’t worry yet, these ultrasound machines aren’t as powerful as the ones in the clinic. Sometimes it’s a bit harder to pick up the heartbeat. I’m going to go and get the doctor on call to give us a hand.” She gave us a reassuring smile and left the room.

So we waited. It was probably 5 minutes in total, but it felt like 105. We continued to sit in silence not knowing what to say, neither of us wanting to voice aloud the unfathomable scenario that seemed to be unfolding before us.

When the nurse returned, she introduced us to the obstetrician on call. He was middle aged, with a slight accent I couldn’t place, and wore colourful metal glasses that seemed dissonantly trendy for an on-call doctor in scrubs.

He picked up the ultrasound wand and began to move it across my stomach. The nurse moved towards the examination chair, positioning herself beside my head, with her hand resting gently on my shoulder. In hindsight, it was clear she was preparing for what she knew was coming next. As the familiar grainy image filled the screen again, I knew what the doctor was going to say, before he spoke the words that forever changed our lives. I felt my heart begin thumping loudly in my ears. There was our daughter and her adorable turned up nose. But this time I could see that her dancer’s feet were completely still.

The next minute unfolded in slow motion, as if we were trapped underwater, fighting against a strong current. In a very soft, but straightforward tone, the doctor turned to face us and said, very matter-of-fact, “do you see that black spot right here,” pointing to the screen. “That’s your baby’s heart, and I don’t see any movement. I’m so sorry, but your baby no longer has a heartbeat.

With those few words, our world was upended.

Suddenly the path that we were walking–the one that we had lovingly planned together and spent the last year preparing for, the one that was leading us to a new future that we had dreamt about and longed for, the one that was leading us to a beautiful life with our precious daughter–was ripped away from under our feet. My husband and I were tossed into the air by shear force, and left suspended in nothingness, with nowhere to land.

The immediate minutes that followed those words are a surreal blur. The nurse hugged my shoulders as she told us how sorry she was. Someone turned off the ultrasound screen. Both the nurse and the doctor left the room to give us some privacy. Ryan and I fell into each other's arms and sobbed. I have no idea how long they left us there, clinging to each other. Trying to process. Trying to wrap our heads around what we’d just been told.

Our daughter had died.
It wasn’t possible.
It couldn’t be possible.
They had to be wrong.

But they weren’t.

The grief we felt in those first moments was intense, disorienting, and all consuming. It hit us like a tidal wave, sweeping us up in its path, tossing us violently, and trapping us under water. It was impossible to breathe. It was raw emotion in its purest form.

But looking back, knowing the journey we were about to walk over the next 48 hours (and the next year), that grief feels quaint in comparison.

Before we knew the decisions we would have to make.
Before we knew the mental, physical, and emotional marathon that was ahead of us.
Before we had fully processed the true magnitude of what we’d lost.