Jonathan Bloomer

On the three-hour drive home from the hospital that cloudy March day, I thought mostly about how I was going to tell my wife that we had just lost our chance to have another child. We had been through two years of grueling fertility treatments, two miscarriages, and countless injections just to get pregnant. But that morning, at our 20-week anatomy scan, we had learned our baby had severe brain damage, a birth defect that made survival outside the womb impossible.

I didn’t know how to break the news to my wife. I didn’t know if I should beat around the bush or if I should just blurt it out. I thought about pulling over and calling her, but I was afraid hearing the news over the phone would make it even worse. So I drove the three hours home in silence, mulling it over and over in my head.

When I finally got home, I didn’t know if I should tell my wife right away or if I should give her a little time to relax first. But she could see how upset I was, and she could sense that something was wrong. “Tell me,” she said. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we can get through it together.”

So I told her. I told her what the doctor had said about our baby’s brain damage, about how it was fatal, and about how we were going to lose our child. I told her everything. And she just listened. She didn’t cry or scream or yell. She just listened.

When I was finished telling her, she put her arms around me and said, “I’m so sorry.” I can still remember how those words felt as they whispered into my ear. How they felt as tears ran down the side of my face and into her hair.

Over the next few days, we both went through our own private hells. We cried until we couldn’t cry anymore. We screamed into the void until our throats were raw. We cursed God and shook our fists at the universe. But we did it together. We did it side by side. And we never let go of each other.

Through all the pain and anger, there was one thing that kept us going: each other. We were all the other one had. We were the other one’s only hope.

It’s been four years since that day. We’ve had time to grieve the loss of our child and to come to terms with the fact that we will never have another one. But we’ve also had time to heal. We’ve had time to rediscover each other and to find new meaning in our lives.

Today, we are stronger than we have ever been. We survived the unthinkable. And it’s not because we’re tough or because we’re special. It’s because we have each other. It’s because we love each other. And it’s because we will never give up on each other.

If you’re going through something difficult right now, I want you to know that you’re not alone. There are people who love you and care about you. And there is always hope. Even when it seems like there is none.

Never give up. Never give up on yourself. And never give up on the people you love.