They say that silence is golden. 

Sporadically yet, silence can be as pernicious as darkness. 

We went through a great deal to bring Albany as part of our family. The theatrical affairs with KK Hospital that had me walk away like a recalcitrant, without further checks on our pregnancy until many months later in a foreign land. Albany's delivery was arduous and were minutes from fatality, as I was told by the staff. I thought such an experience would have bestowed an inveterate belief in positivism within myself. 

So I thought.

What could turn out worse than the first time? Quite a lot of possibilities, in fact, if I would drop my risible naivety. Like my buddy Tucky always said, "Life hits hard when you least expect it." Compared to many, I have a blessed life. I may not have a cushy job or earn a good dough. Neither do I live in a admirable house or drive a gleaming car. Yet the fact that I had the liberty to live a life closer to my exemplary counted double. Soften by silky, uneventful seasons, it was rough waking to the vicissitude of life.

I had been there before. Lying under an ultrasound probe held by a cheerful sonographer. The polite greetings that turned into silence and a undeniable look of concern. There I sat, hugging Albany even tighter against me, staring at the sonographer. Jen was still in blissful ignorance.

"Have you been spotting or bleeding?" he finally broke the silence.

My heart sank. Instantly, a vortex of memories drawn me to the day my sonographer asked me, "Do you smoke?" It didn't matter both our respective questions on different occasions were negative. You know, a sonographer should never ask serious questions outside trivialities such as what you had for lunch. Other than that, bad news. Trust me, I had been there, done that. There was no signs of a heartbeat. Just pitch silence.

"I'm sorry," and with that the friendly smiles disappeared. Even interns quietly slipped out from the room more stealthily than ninja trainees. It seemed that nobody wanted to be friends anymore. We left the hospital in sombre silence between us.


  1. I am so sorry to hear this. Your words hit me hard, but I believe you and your family will keep walking. Please take care, Jen.

    God has better plans for you both.

  2. Am sorry to hear of your loss.
    Applaud your courage to share this.
    My thoughts are with you and Albany, and with Jen especially.

  3. Sorry to hear that and take care.