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I keep my mouth tightly closed these days. I'm afraid that if I open it, even a little bit, the screams will start again and I won't be able to stop. A banshee's howl, that's what I feel clawing in my chest. And I can't let it out because it will destroy me.

This past Monday, October 30th, was Ava's anticipated due date. I should be a mother of two by now. Instead, I buried her ashes beneath a purple calla lily that morning and tried to say goodbye. But I'm sure I fucked that up, because it's not getting any better, it's getting worse. My anger and rage build every day. Anger at G*d, anger at myself, anger at my husband, anger at every single pregnant woman I see. (And I see a lot of them at my son's preschool - it's impossible to avoid the gauntlet of bulging bellies congregating around the classroom doorways, at the top of the stairs, in the temple parking lot.) I hate them - hate them, hate them, hate them - but I hate myself most of all.

Anyone reading this (and I think there are two of you) will say: "Don't blame yourself. Miscarriages happen so often, and it's not your fault. There's nothing you could have done to stop it." Oh, but I could.

We knew something was wrong when the nurse performing the ultrasound said she was having trouble taking the baby's brain measurements. She moved me and the ultrasound wand around (usually in different directions) for at least 10 minutes before stopping. She went outside the exam room to get the doctor, and I turned to my husband: something was badly wrong. He tried to calm my fears, but I knew. Our first trimester screening test had given us reason to worry - the potential chromosomal problem numbers sucked - and this ultrasound was proving just how good that screening test really was.

The doctor came in and continued the ultrasound, again moving me and the wand around. I remember my field of vision narrowing to the black-and-white screen above my head, the flickering, reflected sound wave images. Please, please let everything be okay. Please, G*d, let my baby be okay. We had just found out we were having a girl, and I wanted a chance to prove my mother right - that a daughter would be the bane of my existence (just like I had been hers). The doctor began explaining that there was a large, blank, fluid-filled space where half our baby's brain should be. My breath sucked in on a sob. It was likely the result of a chromosomal abnormality, but we couldn't be sure without amniocentesis results. Even if there were no chromosomal issues, the possible outcomes were not good - we should begin thinking about whether we wanted to terminate the pregnancy.

I left the doctor's office in a fog, and I don't remember much until finding myself sitting in a bookstore cafe staring at my cell phone two days later. I was waiting for my husband to arrive and for the phone to ring - the FISH results would be back any minute. My husband pulled into the parking lot, ran into the cafe and my phone rang, all in that order - eerie timing. My doctor asked me: "Are you ready?" I wasn't - because at that point I knew - but I told her I was, and then the news came: "she has Down Syndrome. That, coupled with the brain abnormality..." She trailed off, or I stopped hearing. I think I started screaming at that point, rocking back and forth on the bench outside the bookstore; I don't remember how I got there. I handed the phone to my husband, unable to speak without shrieking from the pain of it. We had talked about what we would do if we found ourselves at this point, but I couldn't function. It was the Friday before a long holiday weekend. My husband got the clinic details from our OB - we could call them on Tuesday - and we drove home to my son.

And so the nightmare began. And I keep begging to wake up. I pray to G*d that I will wake up.