1 Peter 4:19

Therefore, let those who suffer according to God's will entrust their souls to a faithful Creator while doing good.

((1 Peter 4:19))

Well...here goes. I have lived every pregnant woman's worst nightmare over the past two weeks. Let me begin by saying that I am not writing for sympathy; I am not writing for attention; I am writing only for healing. I want to write all of the wonderful, painful details before time begins to blur them. I'm not a dancer or a singer or an artist (at least I haven't been for a looong time), but I am a writer. It is my release. And boy do I need some release right now. So here is my cathartic opus. 

Patrick & I decided that we would like to have Baby #2 around the time that Lucy turned three (which is next summer) because it was the perfect spacing in our minds. By then Lucy would be potty trained, in a big girl bed, and relatively cognizant of and comfortable with her role as a Big Sister, but she wouldn't be so much older than her sibling that they could not be playmates. It was perfect! It took us almost one full agonizingly emotional year to become pregnant with Lucy, so I thought we should hop on the baby train a little earlier to give ourselves ample time. It was so different this time around. Neither of us were strung out and desperate for a baby like we were with Lucy. We had plenty of time, so we certainly weren't stressed about wanting to be pregnant yesterday like our last go round. Well, wouldn't you know, we conceived like that. I had two normal cycles after going off of birth control, and then surprise! 

Patrick was bathing Lucy one night after work, and I decided to break out a pregnancy test during my fifteen minutes of toddler-in-the-bath-mommy-time because I just felt, well, pregnant. "There is no way it'll be positive," I thought, trying to steel myself for disappointment during the two minute wait time. As I rounded the corner into the bathroom to check the results, I was rendered breathless and speechless by two very clear, very pink lines. After I composed myself, I calmly strolled into the other bathroom and said, "What do you think of this?" and, with a smirk, placed the test in front of Patrick's face. His initial reaction was one of disbelief. How did it happen this quickly!? We weren't even really trying! Then he looked at Lucy as she splashed gleefully in the tub, blissfully unaware of anything we were saying, and exclaimed, "Mommy's going to have another baby!" Before I could even stop myself I said, "Don't tell her that!" "Why?" "Because what if something happens? I don't want her to be disappointed. Let's just at least get to the doctor first before we start with that." 

When I was first pregnant with Lucy, I felt as if I were dying. I legitimately thought I had some terrible cancer before I found out I was pregnant because I was hit-by-a-freight-train exhausted, my head ached terribly, and I could not even open the freezer without being reduced to a gagging, wretching mess from the smell of...I don't know...ice? I didn't feel any of that this time around. Even when I quit my beloved, precious caffeine cold turkey, I suffered nary one headache. "This is too perfect," I thought. My midwife tied to quell my fears at my 6 week appointment when I announced to her that my lack of early pregnancy misery had me a little nervous. "Every pregnancy is different, just like every baby is different," she told me. Besides, everything else in my OB work up checked out perfectly. I was experiencing plenty of other symptoms like fatigue; sore, engorged breasts; increased appetite; increased thirst; and, every woman's favorite, non-stop urination. She sent me on my way and scheduled my first ultrasound during my 9th week. 

The next week, Lucy caught Strep Throat. "Oh crap," I thought, "now I'm going to get it too, and that is BAD news this early on." Like clockwork, I woke up with a 99.9 fever and a sore throat the next day and immediately went to my primary care physician because my OB wouldn't see me for something non-pregnancy related. My throat culture came back negative, and my PCP informed me that there was also a strep-like virus going around, and he felt certain that's what I had. He assured me the virus only lasted two to three days at most and that it would in no way affect my pregnancy. I felt relieved. No infection and no antibiotics seemed like a good thing. I was extremely, frighteningly sick with a flu-like virus at the same point in my pregnancy with Lucy with much worse symptoms and a temperature around 102 for four to five days, and Lucy was perfectly fine. "This is a piece of cake compared to that," I thought, but I was still worried in typical pregnant hypochondriac fashion. 

A few days later, I had a horrifying dream. I woke up panting and terrified because I dreamed that I was at work and ran to the bathroom during class change. To spare the gory details, let's just say that there was an amount of blood more suited to the set of a horror movie in this dream. I ran into my classroom full of kids to call the front office, but I couldn't get my phone to work, so I ran to the office in the midst of the chaos that is class change, but I could find no one; no administrators, no secretaries, no one. I was screaming, "Somebody help me!" over and over again, but no one came. I finally found one of our secretaries, grabbed her, and yelled, "Please find someone to cover my class! I'm having a miscarriage!" and then I woke up. I knew it was just a dream, but I was understandably unsettled by all of the emotions this dream stirred. 

The next week I began spotting. The first time I noticed it, it was so incredibly faint that I wasn't even sure that's what I was seeing. "I'll check again as soon as I get home," I thought. There was nothing even remotely close to a speck for the next eighteen hours. I felt relieved and chalked it up to first trimester paranoia. The next afternoon, I headed to the bathroom before a group meeting during my planning period. There was no mistaking anything this time. The spotting was still light, but it was undeniably apparent. I immediately ran to my room, locked the door, and called my OB. Their office was closed for two hours for a staff meeting. "Oh my God, I thought. This IS my nightmare." I slinked into the meeting for which I was late and grabbed a seat as far from anyone else as inconspicuously possible. I could small no talk, flash no smile, spar no wit at that moment. After what seemed like an eternity, the meeting ended, and I dashed back into my room and was able to reach my OB's office. Naturally, they wanted to see me immediately. I flew to their office, begging God not to take my baby, not to do this to me the whole way there. 

My physical exam was good. Closed cervix. Perfect measurements. No visible cause of bleeding. I was sent to ultrasound. I was stone-faced and silent the entire time, chanting my desperate prayer as the blurred images began to appear on the screen. I saw my baby, and then I saw its little heart flickering away. "Thank you, God!" I breathed as a wash of relief temporarily flooded over me. As my baby's heartbeat played on the screen, the ultrasound technician said, "How far along are you?" "I'm 8 weeks, 1 day." "Hm. Well, I'm measuring this baby at 7 weeks, 2 days." "What does that mean?" I asked as the panic began to tighten my chest and throat. "Oh, your dates are probably just wrong. Based on this, your due date should be January 12th instead of January 6th." I knew my dates weren't wrong, though, but I remained silent. After I got dressed, the ultrasound tech met me in the hall with three pictures of my baby and a cheerful, "Congratulations!" I'm sure she thought me odd because I am certain I said nothing but a mumbled and morose, "Thank you," as I sped past her to wait to speak to the doctor. The doctor said everything looked great except for the baby's size. He questioned my dates, but I persisted in my assertion of the accuracy of my dates. "Well then, we'll need to keep a close eye on this. Your risk of miscarriage has dropped to 5% now that we've seen a healthy heartbeat and a closed cervix," but...that small word weighted the air in the room to an oppressive degree. He told me to call him immediately if my spotting increased or if I experienced any pain, and he instructed me to come back in a week for another ultrasound, which was our original 9 week ultrasound appointment.

The week that followed was one of the hardest of my life. I tried so desperately to find hope. I prayed. I cried. I yelled at God. I apologized for yelling at God. I scolded myself for being so negative. Then I prayed some more. Then I cried some more. All while going to work every day and trying to maintain a thin facade of normalcy. Some of my classes were awful given that it was the last week of classes and the beginning of exams. I threatened, I begged, I yelled, I reasoned in an effort to get them to behave and do their work with varying degrees of success on any given day. Meanwhile, I ran to the bathroom every chance I got and was almost always dismayed and heartbroken by what I found. The spotting hadn't gotten worse, but it was still there. At night, I tried to comfort myself by researching the various causes of bleeding during early pregnancy. Each website told me that 20 to 30% of women have some degree of spotting during their first trimester, and 50% of these go on to have healthy pregnancies. I found message boards where women with spotting posted success stories and pictures of their healthy three year olds. It could be broken capillaries, a cervical erosion, breakthrough bleeding. Yes, it had to be one of those things. But I also found websites that told the story of the other 50% of women who experienced spotting, and it terrified me. I hit my breaking point two days before my appointment. I'd stumbled upon a particularly depressing string of postings by a woman in an almost identical situation who'd ended up miscarrying. I had a panic attack late that night and ended up getting only three hours of sleep before my alarm went off at 5:00 A.M. I called in to work and stayed in bed and wept bitterly until my mother came to my house and refused to leave until I got dressed and came home with her. I couldn't work the day of my appointment either. My spotting had gone from a relatively normal light pink to a concerning red, and I'd begun to have significant back pain. I already knew. 

My OB sent me directly to ultrasound before giving me a physical exam or drawing blood. I fought back tears as I sat in the waiting area between a very pregnant teenager there with her mother and a young couple. The father in said couple was slouched down in his seat, head back, legs spread wide open, eyes closed as if he could think of 1000 places he'd rather be than here with his obviously healthily pregnant girlfriend. "They're all assholes," I thought maliciously and then immediately felt guilty for thinking it. When we were called back to ultrasound, I told the tech that I was a nervous wreck and that she had to tell me as much as she could. "Well, I'm not supposed to tell you much, but I'll tell you what I can to reassure you." I chanted the same desperate prayer as before, this time with much less hope. The baby appeared on the screen, but I wasn't relieved. I needed to see a heartbeat. The tech told me what she was measuring as she clicked buttons on the computer. She switched to the screen that normally shows the fetal heartbeat and said nothing. Because there was nothing. Nothing to say. And nothing to see. She finished capturing a few more images before she mouthed, "I'm sorry," to me as she lowered the exam table. She didn't meet me outside in the hall with pictures this time. 

There isn't much that I dislike more than crying in front of other people, even my own mother or sister. I'm a private crier. I love a good cathartic cry as much as the next person, but I will bite my lip until it's bloody to keep from crying in front of anyone else. But I couldn't help crying on that Wednesday as I waited for the doctor. Here I was surrounded by all these obviously pregnant...well...for lack of a better word...children, and my baby was dead. My doctor was surprisingly sweet and reassured me that there was absolutely nothing I could've done to save this baby. There was something wrong, and it wasn't healthy, so it just didn't make it. As he entered my information into the computer, his office phone rang. I could hear the woman on the other end ask him if he'd like to come up front and have some cake because it was so and so's birthday. Oh yes, he'd be up in a few minutes, but he was with a patient right now. I was so irrationally but tangibly hurt by this exchange. Cake? She called you about cake? I wanted to grab his phone and sling a string of expletives at her, but being a genteel southern lady, I managed to refrain. He hung up and continued to tell me that he'd be on call the next day, so he'd be the one to perform my D&C, which I did find reassuring since he'd seen me through all of this thus far. It seemed oddly fitting. 

I didn't sleep much the night before the procedure. I cried, and I said my final goodbyes to my baby. I apologized. For what I'm not sure. We dropped Lucy off at daycare like any other weekday, and we went to the hospital. I managed to keep it together until the nurse was telling me to change into my gown. Tears began to roll down my face, and she looked so sweetly at me. I said, "I'm not crying because I'm scared; I'm crying because I'm sad. I thought the next time we came to the hospital, we'd leave with our baby." She said precious things, hugged me close, and whispered God's blessings upon you in my ear. After I composed myself and changed, a string of other nurses came in and out to ask me if I'd ever had a heart attack or diabetes or hepatitis, to start my IV, to draw my blood, and to love on me like the substitute mommies I so desperately needed then. After an hour, I was wheeled to the O.R. where all of the medical personnel continued to be so precious; even my anesthesiologist told me how sorry he was for our loss and looked genuinely upset when I let a tear escape my eyes (despite my best efforts) for the forty-fifth time that morning. The anesthesiologist told me about the general anesthesia procedures, but I told him that my doctor told me that I could simply be heavily sedated. I didn't want this to be any more physically and psychologically traumatic than it had to be. My doctor reiterated this to him, and the anesthesiologist said okay. I said goodbye to Patrick, and they took me into the procedure room. They'd given me a shot of Versed by this point, so I was feeling pretty good. I made the O.R. staff laugh when my doctor asked me if I had any questions, and I just said, "Please don't kill me. I know it would be an accident. But that would really suck," or when they pulled the stirrups out, and I exclaimed, "Ohmigah! Are those the stirrups!? They're like five feet hight. You should've told me. I would've stretched," or when they strapped my arms to the table, and my response was, "I'm not going anywhere. Don't you think that's kind of overkill?" After my comedy routine was over, they put a nasal cannula on me, gave me a shot of something, and that was it.

I woke up crying. They were wheeling me back into the DOSU when I became lucid. I don't know if I was crying because of the medicine or because of everything else. I apologized for crying. "I'm just so sad." "I know you are, Honey! I'm sad for you too!" The nurse even stopped my bed in the hallway to give me a hug. I cannot adequately convey how wonderful each of the medical staff was. I pray that God will rain blessings down on each and every one of them because they were all such a blessing to me today. After a pack of crackers, the best Diet Coke I ever drank in my life, and a successful trip to the bathroom, they sent me on my way. 

And so that's that. I don't write this and put it out there to make you feel sorry for me. I'm really not that type of person. I just wanted to remember this experience, as odd as that may sound. I didn't get to have a lot of time with this baby, but I want to remember the time I did have, as painful as it may have been.  I fully believe this happened for a reason. Will I always wonder what that reason may have been? Of course. Did the virus hurt the baby? Did I get pregnant too soon after Mirena? Did the baby have a genetic problem? I'm quite sure I'll never know, but that's okay. I've done a lot...a LOT...of grieving since I first started spotting. To be honest, this pregnancy never felt right from the beginning, and in the back of my mind, I think I knew how it would end from the start. This has certainly challenged my faith in ways I'd never imagined. Losing a baby has always been one of my greatest fears, and now I've lived through it. God is merciful, and his timing is perfect. I so very much want another baby, and I have faith that God will send another one to me when the time is right. I know I'll be so terribly frightened during my next pregnancy because of what I've just been through, but whatever is meant to be will be. I am heartbroken over the loss of what could've been. Any woman who has been pregnant knows what it is to dream about and long for your baby, and when those dreams and longings come to nothing, it's extremely painful. 

I only hope that sharing my story is positive for me and those who take the time to read it. So many of my sweet friends have lost babies, some in the first trimester like me and others much further into their pregnancies. My heart broke for each one of them, but now I understand. The past two weeks I've wanted so desperately just to talk to someone who's experienced this, but I wasn't sure how to go about it. I hope that this post may provide some sort of comfort to any of my friends who may be currently experiencing these things or who may go through this in the future. I would love to hear from anyone who's had a miscarriage before and gone on to experience a healthy pregnancy(s) because that is the deepest desire of my heart. Last night I moved my prenatal vitamins off of my nightstand into the medicine cabinet, and I turned the label toward the back of the cabinet so that I wouldn't have to look at it every morning. But I didn't throw them away. I took my unopened Fit Pregnancy workout DVD and buried it under sweatshirts in my dresser drawer. But I won't take it back to the store. I have to have faith that God will bless us with another perfect baby in the not so distant future. Until then, please keep me and Patrick in your prayers.