Part of my job requires me to go into peoples homes after they suffer a tragedy (like a fire). Today I had to go to the home of a young couple. They didn't have any children, but they told me that she was pregnant. Trying to be polite I asked how far along she was. I feel like a horrible person because I didn't feel bad for them that they had a fire in their house. Instead, I kept on thinking, "I know what your baby looks like right now", "Her baby might now make it", "Babies can die". It's not that her being pregnant bothered me, I guess it was how far a long she was. She was almost as far along as I was with Brenna. It just broke my heart. When we were leaving, they told me that they each had been in a car accident in the last week, and then this with their house. Someone said, "Well at least you have your health" and they replied, "Yep! The baby is nice and healthy!".
Knife. In. My. Gut.
I know I was quiet after that, and I'm not sure anyone noticed. I tried not to be. I've been thinking about it all day today. Maybe it's because I'm going to start my period, and I'm hormonal...
I don't think so.
Most of the deadbabymamas I know are pregnant again. While I really do celebrate their pregnancies (I really do!), I can't help but feel left out. I want that.
And I don't ever know that I will experience it again.