A couple of months later, as I waited for the Friday night meal to begin, I sighed a content sigh, and gratefully placed a hand on my growing belly. Our rainbow baby growing inside of me, finally approaching a gestation that perhaps would let me let go of that breath I’d been holding since we found out we were expecting. In the quiet, the cold tentacles of dread gripped my heart, tight and fast. When was the last time I felt the baby move?
I’d done this a thousand times before this pregnancy. Every small inconsistency made me fearful. I was triggered by everything. But I was right. For once in my life, I pleaded in my head that I was wrong.
On erev Chanukah, the doctor confirmed that our sweet rainbow baby had died in utero. We went from finalizing our Chanukah events to scheduling an induction. The pain of our loss was amplified by the lost opportunities to do what we were here to do: spread light.
While regional shlichus is lonely at the best of times, it’s amplified to a whole new level by loss and grief. We flew to Melbourne to bury our little baby and were wholeheartedly embraced by the community. They gave us all the love, support, delivered meals, and friendship we so desperately needed to heal.
When we flew back home, the gaping chasm in our hearts was a little bit less vast.
Baruch Hashem, we were blessed with another miracle - our precious baby boy, Yehuda.
