Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Chapter 1: The Echo of “Non-Viable”

They said it so casually, almost like it was a fact to be noted in a chart: non-viable.

I can’t stop hearing it.

Non-viable.

Non-viable.

Those two words echo endlessly in my head, rolling over and over like a storm I can’t escape. Every time I close my eyes, they’re there.. a voice that doesn’t belong to me but has taken permanent space in my mind. It’s not just a medical term. It’s the sound of everything I’ve dreamed about being ripped away, a definition of loss I can’t unhear, a sentence that feels like it was written to destroy me.

When they said it, I remember staring at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything else. I saw the fluorescent lights, the beige walls, the clock ticking on the wall, the bruising of where my IV was inserted- after weeks of multiple blood draws. But my brain refused to let anything else in. All I could think was, this was my baby. My baby. Our baby. The one that was wanted and planned that it had become more than just a dream, it had become a physical ache in my heart before it even existed. And now, it was gone.

Even typing these words makes me want to curl up into myself. How do you explain the kind of grief that feels like a physical weight? Like someone has carved out a piece of your chest and left a hollow space that no medicine, no distraction, no words can fill? That’s what this feels like. Every part of me is heavy with it. Every breath feels like I’m dragging my lungs through cement. Every step reminds me that the life I was supposed to nurture, the tiny heartbeat I was supposed to feel, has been silenced before it could even begin.

I didn’t realize grief could be this loud. I thought grief was quiet, a shadowy companion that waited in corners lurking in the distance. But no, grief screams. It shouts through my veins. It bursts into my chest and squeezes until I feel like I can’t breathe. It’s in the way I sit frozen at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. It’s in the trembling of my hands as I pour a cup of tea I can’t taste. It’s in the way my husband looks at me, his eyes full of concern, and I want to scream at him for seeing it, for loving me, for being alive when I feel like I’m drowning.

Because sometimes I do lash out. I snap. I say things I don’t mean. And he, the man who has been my anchor, my home, the person I’ve loved through decades of absence and reunion, he bears it. And I know it’s not fair. I know he doesn’t deserve it. But the anger has nowhere else to go. It isn’t really at him. It’s at the word non-viable. It’s at the universe for dangling the one thing I’ve wanted since we chose this path, for only to snatch it away. It’s at God, at fate, at the cruelty of timing.

And yet, even in my whirlwind anger, there’s a whisper that I can’t ignore: this was love. This was real. That tiny life, however brief, existed because our love exists. Our love is powerful enough to create life, it is that undeniable. And even though it didn’t survive, that truth doesn’t change. It is still ours. It always will be.

The world doesn’t stop for loss like this. It came as a surprise when they would say “Oh, this is your first one, it happens a lot. At least you can get pregnant!” People expect you to move on, to “try again,” to smile and carry on. But inside, time has stopped. The world continues its endless rotation, babies are born, friends post pregnancy announcements, advertisements show perfect little bundles in pastel clothing, and every single one of those moments is a knife in my chest. Every time, my mind calculates: I would’ve been this many weeks. My baby would be the size of an apple. Right now, right this second, this is what should have been.

And the reality is unbearable. I wanted this baby with everything in me, more than anything. Thinking of the time when life was different and I wanted my first daughter, for myself. It wasn’t just about being a parent again; it was about finally holding in my arms the symbol of the love I’ve shared with my husband, a love that survived decades of absence, that defied outside forces, that it had endured. This child was supposed to be the manifestation of that devotion, that unwavering connection that no one else could understand, that no one else could touch. And now that manifestation is gone.

It’s unfair. It’s cruel. It feels like betrayal. And yet, somehow, even in my grief, I can feel gratitude: a twisted, painful gratitude that we even had the chance to create this life. That our love was strong enough to bring it into existence, even if only for a brief moment. It’s a paradox: the more I loved, the harder it hurt. But that love is still there, a thread connecting me to a reality I can’t touch but will never ever forget.

Sometimes I imagine what could have been. I close my eyes and picture holding a tiny hand, feeling the soft warmth against my skin, hearing a quiet heartbeat that isn’t mine. I picture mornings with soft coos, evenings of lullabies, first smiles, first steps. Seeing our older daughter play and be along side of taking care of the baby, forming a bond that can never be broken. I can feel the emptiness of it just as clearly as I can feel the love. And that emptiness is sharp, unrelenting, and impossible to ignore. Shattered.

People say “you’ll heal” or “time will help.” But they don’t see the echo that never fades. Non-viable. Non-viable. Those words won’t leave me. They loop through my mind every day, a constant reminder of everything that should have been.

I have to remind myself to breathe. To eat. To keep going. To hold onto the thread of hope that still exists somewhere in the storm. I believe in something bigger than us, even if I can’t name it. I believe that love matters, even when life doesn’t make sense. I believe that somehow, my baby, our baby knows they were loved, that they always will be.

This grief is mine to carry. Never discrediting my husband, but It is heavy. It is raw. It is endless. And yet, even in its weight, there is proof of love. Proof that I loved, and still love. Proof that my heart can hold both sorrow and devotion at the same time. Proof that even when the world has taken the one thing I wanted most, the love that created it cannot be taken.

Non-viable. Non-viable. Two words that changed everything. But also two words that cannot erase a single heartbeat of the love that made them real.