Rainbow Baby
By Brittany Rainsdon
I don’t remember the exact moment the world turned gray, but I do remember it was a bright summer day. Terrance and I had taken a walk around the greenbelt, shimmering sunlight filtering through the branches of the oak and maple trees, the wind rustling their green leaves, as yellow ducklings swam through the muddy pond water. The cement path meandered through freshly cut grass, the sharp scent mixing with the milkweed that grew along the side road. In the distance lay a small grove of trees and the little white church house we’d been married in two years ago.
Everything was perfect.
Then we walked to our car and drove to the OB-GYN, high on life and all that came with it. “I love you.” Terrance’s giddy smile is still seared in my memory like it’d been burned by a branding iron.
The office was white and clean, the screen gray and black — so I don’t know when the colors faded. Perhaps when I asked the technician if something was wrong and she told me she needed to get the doctor. Or perhaps it was when our OB slicked the probe across my belly, silence filling the room. Maybe it was when he told me, “There’s no heartbeat,” and Terrance squeezed my hand.
But when we came out of the office, the sky was dark, the grass was gray, and my heart felt black. My husband told me he was so sorry, and when I looked at him, his beautiful green eyes were gray.
#
Before we left the office, my OB had pulled out paperwork and scheduled me for a D&C the next morning. That’s “Dilation and Curettage” for the uninitiated. I’d filled out consent forms and the OB contract I’d signed a month ago was shredded. There would be no baby. Apparently, ours had died weeks ago, but my body never recognized the loss. I’d been gaslit by my own hormones.
After the procedure, I never saw what they scraped out of me. “Products of Conception” belonged in the biohazard bin. The doctors never called it a baby. What was I supposed to call it?
#
My husband has never been the type to show affection and sometimes that has bothered me, but over the years we made it a game. I make my needs clear and he pretends to surprise me. It’s goofy, but it works for us. Until it doesn’t. When we arrived home from the hospital, I had no energy to spell out my needs beyond sleep.
But I wanted flowers.
Growing up, my mother told me stories of how my father had paid for beautiful floral arrangements after the delivery of each one of my siblings. In some forgotten conversation, I’d mentioned this to Terrance, and I wanted that kind of thoughtfulness now. But what we lost wasn’t a child, was it? So it didn’t deserve that kind of attention. I couldn’t bring it up.
After my nap, I woke up to get a drink and found carnations on the kitchen table with a note: I love you. The memory of Terrance’s smile and his hope for being a father made my heart ache.
I couldn’t tell what color the carnations were.
#
We had announced our pregnancy on social media; another post marked the end of it. Private messages, phone calls, and emails flooded my inbox. I shut off my cell phone, but eventually I peeked at the messages. Every single one. I didn’t know how to respond, so mostly, I didn’t. With bloodshot eyes, I scrolled on, bile rising in the back of my throat as I blinked back bitter tears.
Some of the messages were encouraging. Some were infuriating. Who tells someone that a dead baby is “God’s will” — that something was wrong with it and that this is nature’s way of preventing future pain? Or that we should be grateful it wasn’t a ‘real’ baby? Was that an acceptable response for any other form of loss?
But worse than saying something infuriating was the silence of those closest to me. The nothing had a way of seeping in. It made me go crazy, like I’d upset myself over something imaginary. I clung to the only ultrasound photo we had, captured at seven weeks.
Yet… did we really suffer a loss if it wasn’t worth recognizing? If there was no substantial proof that life lived inside me? Were we parents to anything? The silence deepened the gray until I felt like I was drowning in it.
#
I didn’t tell my husband about my color problem. It seemed small compared to what had just happened, and in some ways, I was grateful for the dark. It protected me from the cruel colors of the living.
At least, I was grateful until he asked if we should try again. I couldn’t tell him about the colors then. What if this repeated? Would the world go black?
#
We didn’t change our summer plans. Family reunions scheduled months in advance would be attended. And so, I found myself camping with my in-laws at a place called Warm Water Reservoir — it was anything but.
Armed with a sweatshirt and sunglasses, I stretched across the grass and dangled my feet over the edge of the muddy bank, testing the frigid water with my toes.
My husband’s extended family crowded the campground, but most people kept their distance. A few young children waded in shallow swells, splashing and giggling as parents looked on from picnic tables.
“I know how you feel.”
My spine went rigid. What part of sweatshirt, sunglasses, and crossed arms said anything other than ‘stay away?’
Terrance’s cousin, Marcee, slid onto the grass next to me, clutching a new infant. She stroked his cheek. I could smell his new baby scent.
No. She did not know how I felt.
We sat in silence, and I listened to him squirm, clawing at her shirt. Hungry. She let him latch and then took a breath. “We had three miscarriages before Thomas. One at eight weeks, one at eleven, and one at nineteen. Each nearly ripped my heart out. I don’t think it matters how far along you are.”
I swallowed, focusing on the ripples in the gray water and the goosebumps traveling up my legs. I’d said the same thing to my mother a week ago, but she’d assumed a first trimester loss was somehow less devastating and that I should be grateful it wasn’t worse. After all, twelve weeks was hardly pregnant.
“I’m so sorry. How you see the world is never the same after a miscarriage. And people don’t like to acknowledge it, so they leave you lonely in your grief. Which is somehow worse than if they offered rote platitudes. If you want to talk…” Her voice trailed off.
I chewed on my tongue, interested, but afraid to share how much. It stung, sitting so close to her and her baby, but seeing the world differently — that sounded like my color problem. So I stayed.
She paused. “How are you?”
I readjusted my sunglasses and shrugged.
“Listen…” She shifted the baby to her other arm. “This doesn’t happen to everyone, but it did to me, and you look like… When we lost our first, I saw in black and white for two years. I know, it sounds crazy, but the way you’re acting, maybe your eyes are doing the same thing.”
“Or maybe I just like being alone?” I snapped.
“Maybe.” She shook her head. “Or maybe you’re hurting. Just so you know, Thomas was the only thing that brought my color back. He’s my rainbow baby.” She leaned forward and smiled, cooing into her baby’s tiny face. “There’s a reason they’re called that.”
My heart clenched as I watched her, jealousy and anger bubbling hot. If she knew how I felt, what I was seeing, why would she put on such a display?
She looked up, face tender. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen for you, too. Just be patient.” Her warm palm tapped my arm.
But her words slapped, as icy as the water.
#
Fall came and I saw my first color since the loss. On a stick of white: two pink lines.
My heart constricted, and I felt as though it were beating in my throat. I slid the pregnancy test underneath the liner of the trash can. The thunk from it hitting the bottom of the tin wastebasket reminded me of the two other sticks there, both with double sets of lines. They could hide there, underneath the rest of the garbage, until I was certain and ready to hope again.
A rainbow baby.
This is what Marcee said would bring the color back. She wasn’t the only one who’d offered that advice — to try again, to have a baby. I’d read it over and over again in private messages. But what would happen if this pregnancy didn’t work out?
Later that night, I looked up the due date. If this pregnancy stuck, I’d have a baby on the same day I miscarried the year before.
#
I kept my secret for a week, and the pinks deepened until I saw different shades and hues. Beautiful crimson leaves fluttered into our driveway. Red, I realized. It was red.
But I didn’t tell Terrance. I was afraid. Afraid of what the due date meant. Afraid that my body would let me down again. Afraid that I was lying if I told my husband and didn’t deliver on my promise. But mostly, I was afraid that this new pregnancy would be taken from us again and I’d only see black.
When we took our Sunday walk, I noticed more colors in the leaves. Red, orange, yellow — the colors of fire. I realized I was letting myself dream. We walked in silence for a long time, holding hands, while I considered. I didn’t want to burden Terrance, but now seemed the time to tell.
When I finally spoke, his eyes turned green.
#
We didn’t announce our pregnancy, choosing instead to relish each milestone on our own. At seven weeks, I noticed the carnations I’d left to be dried above the kitchen window. Blue.
He’d wanted a son. Maybe we would have one.
#
At nine weeks I allowed myself to look up rainbow baby pictures — photos taken of newborns, wrapped in colorful scarves and hats. Some were given obvious names like Hope, Joy, or less obvious ones like Luke (for light) or Asher (meaning blessed). I wanted to embrace our rainbow — but the storm still felt too close. I wasn’t ready to hope too hard yet.
#
The colors came back quickly now, everything but violet, and I wanted something to help myself look beyond my loss. Life had to go on. I had to let go. I browsed online for inspiration, eventually landing on jewelry. There were commemorative necklaces, nameplates with baby feet and due dates, angel wing bracelets — but all of it screamed miscarriage. I wanted something subtle. Something I could actually wear and not have to talk about if I didn’t want to.
I came to a webpage that sold wire bird’s nest necklaces with beads wrapped in the center as eggs. They were subtle. Pearl beads represented ‘angel’ babies and cracked blue beads (like robin eggs) were living children. The lady who ran the company even sold necklaces with rainbow beads for the special children who came after loss.
I emailed the company to see if they’d take a custom order on a bird’s nest necklace with a pearl and a rainbow bead.
They said they’d have it done in a week.
#
The next morning, Terrance woke early for a business trip. As he packed the last of his things, I sat on the bed and nervously plucked at the zipper on his suitcase. I had a headache, but that wasn’t the only thing bothering me.
“Hey…” Terrance slid the suitcase off the bed and sat down next to me. The mattress sank, shifting my body toward his. “Are you okay?” He rubbed my arm. “Your face looks…”
“It’s just a headache,” I lied. I mean, I did have a headache, but my stomach kept twisting in knots. It felt as if I was teetering on the edge of a cliff.
“I’ll call as soon as I land and…” Terrance frowned. “What’s going on? You can’t expect me to leave when you’re like this.”
“It’s just…” I struggled to find the words. Nervous or uneasy didn’t cut it. Terrified felt more accurate, but I couldn’t say that. Instead, I gestured at my stomach. Terrance’s eyes went wide.
“Is something wrong with—”
“No,” I said. “It’s not that.” Terrance let out a breath. “I’m fine. The baby is fine. Everything is fine. I just… I keep thinking about what if? What if something happens while you're gone? What if I’m alone and bleeding and I have to tell your mother? What if I need a ride to the hospital and—”
Terrance pulled me close. “Don’t think about the ‘what ifs’.”
I couldn’t look at his face. “Terrance, I’m still scared.”
“I know,” he whispered. “But what if I come home next week, and you’re happy and healthy and we get to see another sonogram? And what if you have a smooth pregnancy, and in six months we find out our baby has your eyes and my dimples and—”|
I shook my head, not wanting to imagine. “Terrance, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
I didn’t answer.
Terrance darkened. “Do you want me to cancel my trip?”
“No, you need to go.”
“Nothing bad is going to happen,” he said. “Do you remember what the doctor said about the statistics?”
Of course I did. She’d explained the math, how most people went on to have a healthy baby after miscarrying. Ours was just a fluke. “Yes, Terrance but…” Over his shoulder, I saw the clock on the wall. I’d held him up far too long, and if he was going to make his flight, he needed to leave. “You better get going.”
He studied me for a moment, then pecked me on the cheek. “Everything will be fine.”
And I believed.
That is, until the bleeding started…
~~~
