Preface: Hello, lovelies. I wrote this post originally in April of 2019. It’s been sitting in my drafts since then, but I feel like I should press publish and release it into the world. I hope that it helps someone feel less alone. After this happened, I ended up having an ectopic pregnancy, which will be a story for another time. I now have a one year old daughter, so for anyone going through this, don’t lose hope. Hugs to you all.
Up until 7:12 this morning, I was pregnant. At 7:12, my doctor called. I picked up, hopeful. Maybe he was calling to tell me great news. Maybe the HCG levels that I had worried myself sick about had suddenly gone up over night, and my baby was safe.
In my experience, doctors don’t call for great news. This morning was no different. My HCG level had dropped from 86 on Monday to 32 on Wednesday. I tried to keep it together on the phone, but I know my doctor could tell I had already begun to cry. My heart had sunk and I felt sick. I pulled to the side of the road and fell apart.
Today, I would have been 5 weeks pregnant. I had done my research. If I could have made it through this week to 6 weeks and 2 days, my baby would have had a heartbeat. We would have been good, and our family would be growing.
When I took that first pregnancy test and saw the faintest of lines, my heart skipped a beat. As all neurotic people do, I proceeded to pee on more sticks. The lines kept getting darker. I peed on more sticks, you know, just to be extra sure. From all the articles I’d read, this was a good sign. This little bean was going to stick. I was going to be a mom.
I found out I was pregnant 8 days ago. In those 8 days, I had built a life up for this baby in my head. I imagined carrying him for the next 9 months. I imagined how it would feel to hold him in my arms for the first time. I imagined making funny little purees for him out of kale and strawberries. I imagined walking him to kindergarten and then waving him off on his first date. I imagined driving him to college – how excited he would be about decorating his dorm room!
I imagined all of this, although I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew that up until the second trimester everything was up in the air. I know now, despite the blame that I put on myself, that there was a 20% chance that this would have happened. I know I will try again, and that one day, I will have a baby. Maybe two.
I’m hurting. I didn’t think it would hurt this much but it does. As of 7:12am, I am no longer expecting a baby. I am now expecting blood, to remind me of what could have been. I hope this part comes soon, and leaves quickly. As much as I hurt, I know that I need to hurt in order to heal, and to try again.
For something that happens so often, it’s a shame that it’s so taboo. If I am hurting, I imagine every woman and couple who has gone through this has hurt as well. I am now one in four women who will suffer from a miscarriage. That’s a lot of hurt to keep bottled up. So I’m not going to. I’m writing it out, for the whole damn world to see. This hurts, and that’s okay. I’ll be okay too.