My baby died. A baby I carried inside of me for 25 weeks. A baby who was moving and healthy and active the day they ripped him from my womb. Unconscious, I lay on the table not even hearing him cry. Not holding him in my arms for the first time. Not being the first one to touch him and talk to him and welcome him into this world. No, I lay drugged up on the table, naive and unaware of the journey we are about to embark on. Unaware of the agony and pain and death that would creep upon us in 28 days.
28 days. That's all that was given to my baby boy.
My heart aches. Such a difficult journey, and so unfair.
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