When we first found out I was expecting, there were stages of accepting this surprise:
-First we felt shocked, as I swore the Fertility Friend App said I ovulated the previous week and we didn’t so much as even touch each other.
-Then I came to understand and see the calendar mistake of my/our ways, as women with longer cycles ovulate later. So it made sense.
-Next we both wrapped our head around something we had not anticipated and grew accustomed to this new, nauseated and bloated way of life. (Note: nauseated as a pregnancy symptom, not that we felt grossed out by the idea of starting a family)
-I felt guilty in not even trying and yet there are friends who try, try, again and would love to be in my position.
We accepted this idea of a baby in my belly and shared the news with family as we saw them, each equally excited for us.
And in that time we grew to understand what we though was meant to be, and how we figured it affected our little family unit (sell this darn house! get Mike that dream job!), we failed to know we got ahead of ourselves.
At my latest OB appointment, the sonogram tech nervously squeaked out in broken English, “it grow bigger, though.” I knew the embryonic size failed to match the dates. I knew the lack of heartbeat by 7 to 8 weeks meant nothing good. The tech handed me a box of tissues without saying anything, which I was unclear if this meant I should cry or clean up the KY. They pushed us along into the waiting room, then exam room, then finally to see the doctor where he told us in the most sterile, doctor-way possible, “I just don’t see this as a viable pregnancy.”
-First I felt shocked, as I swore he was wrong. He told us in his 35 years of “doing this” he knew the lack of growth and heartbeat meant miscarriage. They have such a lovely way of gently handling such a heavy matter. I allowed tears to stream down my face. How does a doctor’s office, with a desk and bookshelf, computer and ugly chairs, not have a box of tissues?
-I managed to keep it mildly together until we hit the hallway outside the office. While waiting for the elevator ugly sobs and gasping breaths tore through me. I mumbled that I couldn’t go back to work with children, I couldn’t have my breakdown outside the office where I’m sure all those lovely with-child ladies heard my sorrow. I was devastated.
-That night I had the most needed glass of wine in the history of my life. It lulled me into denial. I woke up early (did I even sleep?) and did some calendar math and internet research. If I still felt pregnant, didn’t it mean I was? If I ovulated late, didn’t it mean that embryo was measuring on target instead? How accurate are early ultrasounds? Was I blowing smoke up my ass?
-Now 5 days after that appointment, in which I swore off ever seeing that doctor ever again, I find myself nestled somewhere into acceptance and just wanting this to be over. I have slight cramping which passes with time and no spotting or bleeding. I have many pregnancy symptoms which just seems like a cruel joke.
Waiting to bleed is the harshest form of patience.
Oddly, knowing my body is doing the best thing by identifying a possible genetic abnormality helps little in processing this news. Knowing we can conceive and I will most likely get pregnant again does little for right now. Any news of the future and trying again makes me feel worse about right now – because right now, I’ve accepted I’m heartbroken.
Living in our nation's capital allows me to learn something new every day. So does teaching 2nd graders. My nose piercing and tattoos keep me from normalcy, while my job and religion keep me grounded.
