It has been nearly 48 hours since I began mourning my angel baby—the one I may never hold in my arms. Did I cry? I cannot say for sure. Everything feels like a dream—a cherished yet fleeting memory. Why am I sharing this? To vent? To seek solace? I leave that for you to decide.
Like many couples navigating the ups and downs of an arranged marriage, my husband and I had our own journey. Four years after our grand wedding, we faced a persistent question: "Any good news?" Then one Friday, everything changed. The two pink lines on a pregnancy test brought a wave of disbelief and joy. In our excitement, we bought more tests to confirm what seemed like a miracle. That weekend was the longest of our lives, filled with anxiety, excitement, and hope. We decided to keep this secret until the gynecologist confirmed the news.
It was the pandemic, and even visiting a doctor was a challenge. After much effort, we secured an appointment for Monday. The wait in the reception felt endless. When my name was called, my husband and I rushed in. The doctor, who had been treating my anxiety and PMS for years, smiled warmly and asked my husband to join us. She confirmed that the news looked promising but asked us to wait another week for confirmation.
Unable to contain our excitement, we shared the news with our parents. They were thrilled but cautioned us to be patient and take things slowly. When the doctor finally confirmed the pregnancy, our hearts were overwhelmed with joy. Seeing the tiny sac on the screen was a moment we would never forget. The doctor’s advice was simple: avoid online half-truths and trust our family’s wisdom.
We named our baby "Bidda" and began talking to them every day. I read stories of heroes like Major Acharya, Netaji, and Abhimanyu. We played chants and introduced Bidda to the voices of our loved ones through videos and calls. My husband, after work, would share stories and make promises about toys and bedtime cuddles. These moments strengthened our bond and filled our lives with hope.
At 11 weeks, during a routine scan, our joy turned to heartbreak. Bidda’s heartbeat had stopped. The doctor sought second and third opinions, but the outcome remained unchanged. On July 24, the day of Adi Pooram—a day celebrating the goddess’s baby shower—we were asked to visit the scan center early in the morning. The night before was sleepless and filled with dread, reminiscent of the Thursday night when I lost my baby brother. Death was not new to me, but this loss felt unbearable.
After hours of scans, the doctors confirmed what we feared: Bidda had become an angel. The cause remained unknown—placental bleeding and the loss of cardiac activity defied medical explanation. The Giver had reclaimed the gift. That evening, amidst rituals celebrating life, we offered our angel back to the divine.
Swallowing the prescribed pills felt like swallowing shards of glass. Pain, both physical and emotional, engulfed me. Four hours later, our tiny Bidda was gone. The grief was overwhelming. Questions haunted us: Why us? Why Bidda? Was it a boy or a girl? Whom did they resemble? The answers remain elusive.
In our sorrow, we found solace in believing Bidda is now our angel, watching over us. Perhaps they came to strengthen our bond, to teach us about unconditional love, or to unite our family. Whatever the reason, we are grateful for the brief yet profound joy Bidda brought into our lives.
Thank you, Bidda, for choosing us. We will miss you deeply but will forever cherish the precious days of parenthood you gave us.
Dated July 26, 2020.
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