Acknowledgments
I am profoundly grateful to everyone who supported me through the most difficult period of my life. To those who found words of comfort—and to those who couldn’t, but whose silent hugs were the strongest. To my most understanding friends, who figured out how to help me grieve while I was still searching for my own way. To those who supported my spiritual and physical healing through breathwork and body practices. To my psychologist, who created a trusting atmosphere and walked me through this experience one more time. To my husband, who was always ready to hold me close and listen. And, of course, to myself—for the strength to openly share my story, for listening to my inner voice, and for finding the courage to embrace this tragedy from the very beginning.
Preface
Why do I keep talking and writing about all of this?
I hear this question often—and see pitying looks that seem to say, “She hasn’t let go yet.” Sometimes I get words of encouragement like: “Everything will be fine, you’ll have children, don’t beat yourself up so much—my friends went through something similar, and now they have three wonderful kids. Just focus on the future.”
It had been two months since the termination of my pregnancy when I first sat down to write my story, thinking: “This wasn’t all for nothing.” I don’t hide the tragedy under the rug or pretend it never happened. I allow it to take its place in my life so we can move forward together.
In this personal essay, I don’t offer recommendations or advice on how best to live through or accept a perinatal loss. I simply share my story: how I came to accept it, what I felt, what I thought, what kind of support I needed, and what helped me on the path to recovery. Perhaps it will help someone.
My first son’s life was short—just five months. But even that time was enough for him to teach me something and change my life forever. Now it’s my responsibility to help his voice be heard in the world, because even a brief life has meaning and can leave a lasting mark.
Chapter 1
Monday, June 16
That morning, I asked Alex: “Hey, I have an ultrasound today—we’ll get to see the baby inside. Want to come with me?”
“What time?”
“2:00 p.m.”
“Hmm… I’ve already seen him inside, back at 12 weeks.”
“That’s true. But there aren’t many morphology scans during the whole pregnancy, and this one’s special.”
“Alright, let’s go. I’ll bring my laptop and work while we wait.”
As we got ready, I thought about how we’d be flying out on Friday for a friend’s wedding in Transylvania, then finally to Budapest. I hadn’t been there in six years. That’s where Alex and I met, where many of our friends live, where I spent my most fun and carefree years growing up. Gifts for friends were already bought and accommodations arranged. I was already anticipating wandering through Lehel Vásárcsarnok, buying the tastiest Kecskemét peaches, and recalling those Hungarian numbers at checkout.
2:00 p.m.
We’re sitting outside the office, waiting for our appointment. There’s another couple nearby. We giggle a bit; Alex tries to work. At 2:30, the sonographer arrives and sees them first. Half an hour later, the door opens, and we hear the long-awaited: “Madame Chernova.”
Standard procedure: I lie on the exam table, expose my belly. “This might feel cool,” the doctor says, squeezing a generous amount of gel onto my skin.
A silvery little figure appears on the black screen. Images flicker by: some show body parts clearly, others are a blur. The doctor is silent. I know this type—some narrate every detail, organ by organ; others examine quietly and summarize at the end. She’s probably the latter. A few times, she presses the probe harder than usual—it hurts a little, but I figure it’s necessary.
Finally, she sets the probe aside and speaks: “The baby is in an awkward position, so I can’t be 100 percent sure, but I see a neural tube defect. Have you heard of spina bifida? All other organs look fine. It’s important to get a second opinion as soon as possible, so I’ll refer you to another hospital. When would suit you?”
A ringing in my ears, my heart sinking—that rare but familiar feeling when something serious happens. Spina bifida… Yes, I’d come across it in pregnancy books. But I couldn’t recall exactly what it meant.
“We’re leaving for vacation on Friday…”
“Okay, I’ll check if they have slots before then. Wait here.”
I stand and turn to Alex. He looks at me with wide, bewildered eyes.
“I don’t feel well. Can’t breathe.” He sits on the exam table where I’d just been.
I open the window, but with +32°C outside and no breeze, it’s little help. I pull a water bottle from my backpack and hand it to him.
“Don’t worry, Alex… She must be wrong. Everything’s fine in there, I’m sure. She said herself the position was bad and we need to confirm. Let’s not panic too soon.”
A knock at the door. My gynecologist enters. Usually not very empathetic, today he creases his brows in concern and asks, “How are you?” A bad sign, I think. But, still echoing my own words, I tell him:
“Fine. The sonographer said she wasn’t sure about the defect because of the position, and we need a second specialist’s opinion.”
“No, there’s definitely a defect; it’s just unclear how severe. The sonographer mentioned you’re planning a vacation at the end of the week?”
“Yes, Friday.”
“In this situation, it’s better not to delay.”
“Why?” I burst out, somehow. “To make the abortion deadline?”
“No, there are no deadlines here. It just gets more complicated. Plus, doctors are starting their vacations. Get the second opinion; I’ll call you, and we’ll discuss next steps.”
Alex and I leave the office in a daze and walk silently to the parking lot. I try to convince myself not to grieve prematurely and tell him:
“Tomorrow we’ll go for the repeat ultrasound, and if they confirm the defect, then we’ll worry. For now, let’s not spiral. Besides, I have a French exam in two hours—I won’t pass if I let emotions take over now.”
Of course, as soon as I can, I google “spina bifida,” and heartbreaking images flood my screen. From the descriptions, I realize it’s very serious. Tears drip onto my phone.
6:30 p.m.
French class. They hand out paper and the task: Imagine you’re a journalist writing a column on any topic for a fashion magazine. My stressed brain refuses to come up with anything. All I hear in my head is: “Have you heard of spina bifida…”
With immense effort, I finally invent a storyline and write about what I know—the differences in everyday style between Eastern and Western Europe. I turn it in, hop on my bike, and feel the tears streaming—I can’t hold them back. As I turned the keys in the lock of my apartment door, I drew in a deep breath, so that once I stepped inside and closed it behind me, I could let out the wail of anguish right away.
That was the first day.
To read more:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tZzAi56K4MnV_BnC4zgusTx1jsjan7CoyfkI4C2k0EY/edit?usp=sharinge 16
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