It is such a scary word, and one that is linked to so much grief, sorrow, and sadness.
After trying for 6 months, calculating every twinge in my ovaries, we finally got the double lines on the pregnancy test. Everyone knows that 6 months is about the average amount of time it takes for an average couple to get pregnant, but it seemed like years. Every month I would pee on a million sticks to check if I was ovulating, and then I would pee on a million more to see if this would be the month that we would finally get a positive test. FINALLY, it happened. We found out in April, the due date was January 21st (which was also my due date= fate), and although I knew that not all pregnancies develop normally, I didn't personally know many people who had suffered a miscarriage ( until after I had one), so I quietly and carefully told my closest friends and family. I chose to keep it off of social media until after our first ultrasound at 9 weeks, but the news spread quickly.
Those 9 weeks crept by even slower than the previous 6 months.
I immediately began ordering baby clothes, picking out strollers, buying maternity clothes, and planning our nursery. Every conversation between my husband and I revolved around baby names and plans for the next year when we would finally be parents. I began taking my weekly belly photographs, and even preparing for our announcement photo shoot. Saying that we were excited is an understatement.
Oddly (or maybe not so oddly), I continued to take pregnancy tests throughout those weeks that lead up to the appointment. With none of the normal signs of pregnancy (headaches, nausea, heightened sense of smell, cravings) I needed reassurance that I really was pregnant. It was still new and exciting each time I saw the positive.
I woke up the morning of our doctor visit and felt sick to my stomach with nerves. I even cried on the way there. It's like I knew deep down that we would be getting bad news and I refused to let myself get too excited.
As we entered the ultrasound room for the first time, I remember feeling like all of the air was being sucked out of me. I got up on the table, and lifted my shirt and prepared to see nothing in my belly. But, there it was. That little white blob up on the screen. The one I just knew that I wouldn't get to see. I WAS pregnant, and instantly relieved. My husband and I shot wide smiles of pride at each other as I asked the ultrasound tech, "is that our baby?" She responded with a bland "yes" and left it at that. We were dying to get the inside scoop, to finally learn something about our baby, and before we knew it, the nurse had left the room and our doctor entered without a trace of a smile. He sat down quietly, and began to measure the blob on the screen, not saying anything.
I could feel the room getting warmer, as our hearts began to melt. We knew that something was wrong. The silence told us everything we needed to know. There was no laughter, no talking, no heartbeat coming from the speakers.
The doctor simply said, "I'm so sorry." And then he left the room for us to gather our thoughts and have a moment to ourselves.
As soon as that door closed behind him, I melted into my husband's arms, and they weren't the strong, sturdy arms that I was used to falling into. He was melting too. We sank into a nearby chair, and cried together...for the first time ever. For the first time, we felt the same pain. It brought us closer than we had ever been. We didn't even know how much we loved that baby whom we had never met, who had no name, who had no gender, but we loved him or her so much.
Once we picked our hearts up off the floor and dried each other's tears, we met with the doctor in a regular room. He talked to us about the choices we had and the different options for "getting rid" of the baby. Even though it could be days, or weeks, I chose to allow my body to recognize that the pregnancy had been lost, and to let everything happen naturally. I couldn't stand the idea of electing to have my baby forcefully removed from my womb.
It took three weeks for the miscarriage process to begin. I was 12 weeks along, almost to the end of what should have been a glorious first trimester. I was off of work for the summer, and I spent those weeks in quiet hopes that the doctors had been wrong. I appreciate every minute of those three weeks that I got to spend being a mommy to this baby. On July 4th, I decided that I was tired of sitting around waiting for "it" to happen, so we jumped on our boat and headed to "the islands," our happy place, to spend the holiday. When we returned to the marina that night to watch the fireworks with our family, the process had begun. I didn't mention a word about it to anyone, and allowed our parents to unknowingly spend the last night with the grandchild they would never really know. I told husband what was happening once we got home on that stormy night, and we spent the whole night curled up in bed together. He was by my side through the whole thing. Labor didn't really start until the early hours of the morning, and by that time I was so deliriously sick and in pain that the hours seemed to pass like the lightening outside. By the time the sun decided to shine, it was all over, and my 12 weeks of being a mommy had gone as fast as they had come.
It's amazing that a time in your life when you hurt so bad, and need so much, people seem to distance themselves the most. Nobody wanted to talk about it. I understand. It is awkward, it is sad, and nobody really knows what to say. But, it was so lonely. I still look at those weeks directly before and after I lost my baby as some of the loneliest days of my life. People are still weird when I bring up my angel baby in heaven, my sweet Price's older brother or sister, the baby that made me a mommy.
Now that a couple of years have passed, and I have a healthy, beautiful baby boy, people seem to have forgotten that this ever even happened. But I will never forget the love that I felt during those 12 weeks. And my connection with Price is so much stronger, and he is so much more appreciated because I know that those two lines on a pregnancy test do not mean that you will welcome a baby in 9 months. He is a beautiful blessing that my first baby taught me how to be thankful for.
I will never take for granted how blessed I am to be a mom, and how easily that dream can be lost.
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| Photo by: Delaina Marie Photography |
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