We Knew

It was our three-month ultrasound.

We thought it would be like the movies, where you look at an ultra hi-def screen and the baby is crystal clear. It felt like a big moment. I had left work early that afternoon and was hoping to get back quickly. After all, it was just a routine visit, or so I thought.

We checked in and were shown into the examination room. The nurse asked Hema to lie down on the bed. She applied gel and began moving the probe across her abdomen, looking for a heartbeat.

Her reaction made us realize something was wrong.

Hema and I looked at each other.

The nurse didn't say anything. She simply said she would be back in a minute.

We knew.

The doctor came in, repeated the scan, and after a few moments told us that he was unable to detect a heartbeat.

It was one of the lowest points of our lives.

Three months in, we had already started imagining birthdays, schools, and family vacations.

When you experience a miscarriage, it feels as though a future has disappeared. Happiness loses its meaning for days, weeks, sometimes months. Even today, after having two children, I cannot completely let go of that moment.

People try to help.

"It's nature's way."

"Maybe your body wasn't ready."

"You'll have another child."

None of it really matters at the time.

Life for the next few months was anything but normal. We made some lifestyle changes, moved apartments, and tried to carry on.

In parallel, we underwent genetic testing and learned that the baby we lost was a boy. The tests also revealed a genetic disorder.

Rationally, we understood what had happened.

Emotionally, it changed nothing.

Around that time, Hema became fixated on Bora Bora after seeing vacation pictures somewhere. I don't even remember if Instagram existed back then.

I suggested Hawaii.

"The water is probably the same, and it's much cheaper."

Hema wasn't interested.

"Bora Bora it is. We can always do Hawaii later."

So I suggested that if we were flying all the way into the South Pacific, we might as well add New Zealand to the trip. And that's exactly what we did.

Somewhere in New Zealand, trying to move forward.

We spent time in New Zealand and stopped in Bora Bora on the way back.

At one point during the trip, we found ourselves talking about the miscarriage again.

I had always wanted a daughter. Hema too. In fact, the name Sahana had been decided years earlier.

"You know," I said, "we couldn't have done this trip if the baby was on the way."

Hema paused for a moment.

"Yes," she said. "I definitely wish that was the case."

Hema was quiet for a while.

Then she said,

"It was a boy."

That conversation has simply stayed with me.

After that ultrasound, I dreaded every future ultrasound appointment. We never returned to that hospital.

I became irrationally superstitious about everything. During both pregnancies that followed, I was filled with anxiety. I didn't even want to tell people we were expecting because I was afraid I might somehow jinx it.

I just wanted the deliveries to happen and to see healthy babies.

At the time, every little thing mattered. I wouldn't even change the route I took to the clinic for regular visits.

I listened to Edamana Vasudevan Namboothiri's rendition of the 100th Dasakam of Narayaneeyam every single day. I continued chanting Rudram.

I still remember a visit to my Guru during that period.

I asked him, "Why is all this happening to me?"

He listened patiently and said that one day I would come back and tell him that I had two children and that life was going well.

At the time, it sounded impossible.

Today, I think of that conversation often.

Luckily, we had Akhil later. Then Sahana followed a couple of years after that.

Looking at the shenanigans from these two, Hema and I sometimes wonder what we were even thinking.

We just watched Cast Away. The kids had hundreds of questions.

Akhil was reassuring Sahana that Tom Hanks wasn't really stranded on an island.

"He is not alone," he explained patiently.

"This is a movie set."

Both of them fight over the most ridiculous things. They have completely different personalities and somehow manage to irritate each other several times a day.

Fifteen years ago, I would have given anything to hear that noise.

---