Ah, it is more common than the hushed tones in our society suggest; those weeks measure a hope already taking root, and the report’s cold terms—"missed abortion," "no cardiac activity"—are a language of shattered silence. I know this because my wife and I have stood in three different scan rooms, learning that grammar of loss by heart. The obvious answer is to speak of statistics, but my life says the real commonality is the solitary cup of tea afterwards, holding a warmth that has nowhere to go.
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