Right away we started speculating. Boy or girl? We got serious about buying a house, even signing a contract to build a few weeks later. My breasts got a little fuller, my waist a little thicker. I was waiting to feel more nauseous, more sensitive to smell. I looked forward to the smooth skin, the thicker hair, that each pregnancy had gifted me. Most of all, I counted down the weeks, eagerly anticipating the day I would first feel my child moving inside of my being. I looked forward to having our families visit us for the holidays--the baby was due the week before Thanksgiving, and surely, they would come.
I googled fun ways to declare my pregnancy on facebook, all of them cliche and worn out; I planned a Mother's Day card announcement for our families. We have always waited to spread the news of a new baby. I told myself "just in case," but really, I savor the secret, and then enjoy surprising everyone when I'm already 12 or 13 weeks along.
9 weeks and 1 day (but who's counting?), I noticed blood when I relieved myself that morning. I visited the bathroom frequently after that, hoping, praying, that it was nothing. I felt some cramping, but that was not abnormal for me--I attributed it to my swelling uterus. Finally, I called the doctor; they asked me to come in.
She checked the bleeding, and then did a vaginal ultrasound. It didn't last very long, maybe 30 seconds, and I knew right away that something was wrong. "This doesn't look normal," she said. She tried to be optimistic, but I knew what was coming. There was an egg sac but no fetus. I let them poke my arm with needles, knowing what the blood tests would confirm. I was losing the baby--or more correctly, I was losing the egg sac.
My HCG levels were high, over 12,000--proof that I was pregnant. My progesterone, though, was only 4.6--proof that all evidence of a pregnancy was flowing out of my body.
A lot of people have miscarriages. It's not uncommon. They usually describe it as a heavy period. No one tells you that it's painful. That you will have hours and waves of contracting to expel that little bit of bloody tissue out of your body. That you will feel it traveling out of you as you spend those hours in the bathroom crying, waiting. They told me to expect bleeding for the next 4-6 weeks. I will go back to the doctor, at least once, for another naked examination, and to be poked by more needles, to be told that I am back to "normal." No one tells you, though now it seems so obvious, that after the physical pain subsides, there is still emotional pain. The disappointment. The hormones!
Tuesday was the hardest day. The most painful, the most emotional. Every day has been a little bit better, but every day, there has been something to bring tears without notice. On Thursday, it was a too-long wait at the tire shop. On Friday, a call from the cardiologist, the words falling out of my mouth and into the phone, "I miscarried this week."
If I'm honest, this pregnancy always felt different. I was always afraid that something was wrong. If I'm honest, I can understand that this was part of Heavenly Father's plan for me. If I'm honest, I can see His wisdom, and I know that everything will work out just right. Sometimes, though, honesty still hurts.
Today a friend ran up to us at the park, eagerly announcing, "I'm pregnant." Everyone was congratulating her, but I had to separate myself while I silently grieved. I'm happy for her, I truly am. But what I so loudly remembered right then was that I am not pregnant anymore, and that I never got to share and celebrate my own exciting news.
A few months ago a friend sent me a small, hard-bound book with empty pages and a purple butterfly on its square cover. Today I decided that I would use it to keep a record of the blessings in my life.
Today, and yesterday, and surely tomorrow, I received and will continue to receive calls, messages, and texts from the few people that I have told, asking me how I'm doing. My family has received meals and anonymous goodies at our front door. For friends, I am thankful.
Tonight, my children requested a sibling sleepover. They covered the boys' room in blankets and pillows, and as I sit here and write, I can hear them talking, movement on the floor above me. They don't think I know about the flashlights they are hiding. For four thoughtful, beautiful children, I give thanks.
My husband called to tell me that he left his out-of-town work engagement early, and would be home several hours earlier than I anticipated. For his thoughtfulness, his love, and his dedication to our family: I am thankful.
As I sit here, I can hear the crickets calling outside. I hear the hum of the computer, the silence of my thoughts. As I turn my head and observe the rooms around me, I see proof of my family, evidence of the life we have created. This little wrinkle in my plan--it will become part of us, part of me, and I will be thankful.
The only picture I have with my tiny 9 week bump.
No one would have noticed, probably, but me, on this Easter Sunday.
