I would have to say that yesterday was, by far the worst day of my life.  I am trying to put into perspective the events that transpired yesterday, but I haven't and don't think I ever will.  That is why I am writing this; it is my way to grieve, my way to cope, but it's going to be awhile (if ever) before I will ever feel better, or at least accept it all or any part of it.  I would take my previous worst day a thousand times over if it would erase what happened yesterday.     I was getting ready to leave for work.  It was about 5:10 AM, and I was just about to leave.  My dog was barking and carrying on more than normal.  I stopped to see what was bothering him when I thought I heard something.  That's when I heard my wife screaming my name.  I ran into the bedroom and saw my wife in the bathroom, and blood was everywhere.  She was standing there, crying, and the only thing she could say was, "I think I just miscarried our baby."  She was almost 11 weeks pregnant, and in a week, we had an appointment to hear the heartbeat for the first time.  I went numb; I couldn't feel a thing.  The only thing I could do was to hug my wife as we cried in each other's arms.       I had to take her to the ER because she was just bleeding too much.  The doctors confirmed what we thought.  Our baby was gone; our baby was dead.  My wife is going to be fine, and that was about the only good thing about the day.  She is just physically and emotionally drained, as am I.  The ER doctor said that miscarriages are sometimes such a mystery.  They don't really know why they happen, maybe the baby wasn't developing right.  That still doesn't make this any easier.  The ER doctor was very reassuring and said that we shouldn't beat ourselves up about every little thing we did while she was pregnant, but I just don't know.  What I do know is that I am still numb about it.  That part I don't think will ever go away.  The part of of that is numb, I think, is the part of me that died when my baby did.  My grief comes in waves; my denial comes in waves.  I don't know why this had to happen, and I just don't have the mental energy to look for answers right now.  All my energy is to help my wife grieve and to grieve myself.  I can't believe this has happened; my baby is gone, my sweet little baby is gone.     Last night, I stayed up late.  I just couldn't sleep, and I did something I haven't done in a very long time: drank alcohol.  But I couldn't even get through the first drink.  For some reason, I suddenly realized that I had to do something.  Maybe it was an epiphany of some sort, or maybe it was my baby telling me something.  I just don't know what led me to the realization that I had to pay my respects, and I couldn't do it while drinking alcohol.  I dumped the drink down the sink, sat down, and wrote a letter to my little baby.           To my dear little baby,               I never got to meet you, but I think you know who I am.  I am your daddy, the one who said good-night to you, the one who said good-morning to you, the one who always told you how much I loved you.  I always told you that I was proud of you and that I couldn't wait to meet you.  But that moment never came; you died today.  I don't know when it actually happened, but it feels like a piece of me died too.  I am still very proud of you; I still love you very much.  Those feelings will never go away.  You will always be my little baby, no matter what.  I am really sad that I never got to meet you, hold you, kiss you, teach and show you all the things that I wanted to.  You're in a good place now, and I hope that I will get to meet you someday.  For now, rest easy my little baby.  Mommy and Daddy will always love you.                                                                                          Eternal love,                                                                                          Daddy That's about all I can handle for now.  Please pray for me and my wife.