So long, Baby Zoe.

Dorian was 8 months pregnant. Things were going great. No gestational-diabetes, amazing fetal growth rate/movement, and what sounded like a good, strong, healthy heart.

Yesterday afternoon Dorian mentioned to me that she hadn't felt little Zoe move at all in about a day and a half. This would be generally alarming for any pregnant woman, but especially for Dorian, since Zoe was such a little mover and a shaker.

Long story short, my baby is dead. Her heart apparently just quit. They really don't have any other answer for us other than, "Well, there's no heartbeat, and the cord is fine, and there's no signs of interior trauma."

Yeah. This fucking sucks. I am not a big crier, but I have been crying.

A lot.

Tonight will be even worse. Dorian has to go in at six and have labor induced so she can give birth to our dead daughter. I think if I see her, I'll die.

And as fucked up as it sounds, had this happened a month, or even three months in, I'd probably be okay. Because I didn't want it. I didn't want to be a Dad. I didn't want a family. Or responsibility. Now it's different. I was ready. Excited. Happy. I was completely attached to someone that I've only seen in grainy pictures. She's gone.

I'm a man of science, so I keep telling myself that Dorian's body was trying to spare us some heart-ache later down the line, right? It doesn't help. I don't care how fucked up she would have been born. She would have been mine god damn it. Mine. Mine and alive.