In the spring of 2009, my husband and I decided to try and have a baby. After some careful calculations and counting on my fingers (there’s a reason I’m in remedial math), I discovered that I would be ovulating during the week prior to our first wedding anniversary and, if we conceived during this time, I would be due on April 15. I never in a million years thought we’d get it on the first try.
Ten days after said anniversary, when Girl Power hadn’t shown up yet, we got suspicious. And excited. I took five home pregnancy tests between Tuesday and Wednesday of that week. It didn’t take so many to convince me. No, I was convinced even before I took the first one. But I took five. Every time I peed on a stick, I got a +, and it was like hitting the jackpot. Plus I had paid for them, so I figured I might as well use them. Counting from LMP, I was 5 weeks along. I called my OB/GYN and by some miracle of God managed to get my first prenatal appointment for the following week. We were ecstatic, but decided to keep it a secret until morning sickness caught up with me, figuring it would be a dead giveaway.
I floated through the rest of the week.
I started a baby registry at Target.com, purchased my very own copy of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” (and read about half of it), bought myself a weekly/monthly planner (in which I marked each week of my pregnancy – “6 weeks today!” etc. – all the way to my due date) and made a to-do list for the remaining 35 weeks of my pregnancy. We had a porch to fix, a spare bedroom to clean out and paint, furniture to buy…My husband, who hadn’t been thrilled at the idea of having to do some of those chores previously, seemed happy and excited to have a good reason to do them. We spent a considerable amount of time looking at baby and pregnancy websites, and were extremely proud to learn that at five weeks, our baby was about the size of an apple seed. “Baby Appleseed,” we dubbed our tiny little sweetheart.
After a few days, we decided to go ahead and tell our families that weekend. It was too big and too exciting of a secret to keep, and I figured I only had a week or two before morning sickness kicked in anyway. That Friday, on our way home from work, we planned what we’d say. We had to pick up my daughter from my parents’ house anyway, so we decided to tell them first. Unfortunately, our timing was off and we caught them as they were rushing out the door to go to dinner. We left, giggling because I’d almost let it slip. We decided to wait until Sunday. The next day we devised a plot. First, we’d take his parents to lunch after church and tell them. Immediately after, we’d go to my parents’ house and share with them, then start making phone calls to everyone else.
Sunday came. It was August 16. I remember everything so vividly, as if it just happened this morning:
I woke up with an upset stomach and decided that going to church was not in my best interest. My husband and daughter went without me, and we agreed to keep our lunch plans with his parents. After they left I piddled around the house feeling puny for a bit, and then took an hour long nap on the couch. When I awoke, my stomach hurt even more.
Diarrhea, I thought. I went to the bathroom and dropped my undies, where, to my horror, I saw a quarter-sized spot of blood.
Not diarrhea.I wiped over and over and began to panic. “Oh no…oh no…oh no!” I breathed. I was alone and scared and although I felt confused, I already knew what was happening and that there was nothing that could be done. Still, I prayed feverishly.
Oh God, please make it stop. Make it stop, make it stop. I want this baby. Please, please don’t let this happen. No!! GOD!! Hear my cry! Please, Father, please don’t let this happen! I prayed, knowing that God’s plan wasn’t the same as my own. I was in shock, and I sat there on the toilet for what felt like hours but was probably only a minute or two.
Somehow I managed to snap back to reality and garner enough sense to change into clean underwear. With pad in place, I began pacing the house. My breathing was fast and shallow. Minutes passed in which all I could do was breathe and continue to panic.
Hospital, I finally thought.
I have to get to the hospital. But was I supposed to go to the ER, or to the OB floor? I destroyed our bedroom looking for a phone book. As I dialed the number to the emergency department to ask where I should go, reality set in. When the phone was answered and I tried to explain my situation to the nice lady on the other end, I finally started to cry.
I texted my husband.
Call me AS SOON AS YOU GET OUT OF CHURCH!!! I realized that I was still in just a t-shirt and panties. I stood in the closet for a moment trying to decide what to wear, realizing that under any other circumstances it would be humorous, me standing with a pile of rejected shirts at my feet panicking over what to wear. It was something my husband constantly teased me about. This day, I tore shirt after shirt off of the hangers before tearfully screaming, “NO ONE CARES WHAT YOU WEAR TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!”…I finally decided on an old, comfortable pair of Silver jeans and a gray t-shirt and the new pair of Skechers that my husband had recently bought me. 11:45 came, and my phone rang. Husband. He asked what was up. A voice I hardly recognized replied, “You have to take me to the emergency room!” Thirty seconds later he burst through the door as I fumbled in my wallet for my insurance card.
My husband helped me to the truck, where my 7-year-old daughter was waiting. She asked what was wrong and why I was crying. I lied and told her that my stomachache had gotten worse and that we had to go to the doctor. I spent the next ten minutes trying to hold it together while she excitedly told me about everything she’d done in Sunday school. My husband called his parents to tell them that I was sick and that we’d have to reschedule our lunch date.
Our ER doctor was very kind and upbeat, which was what I needed. I really appreciated him, his kindness, and his cheerfulness. He spoke in code the entire time; we told him that our daughter wasn’t aware of my pregnancy. I peed in a cup and returned to my little ER room, where a nurse gave me a gown to change into, just in case. An hour passed. The lab results confirmed I was indeed pregnant, but my HCG count was low. A pretty lab tech I recognized from high school came in and took some blood. Another hour or so passed. We had finally found something decent for my daughter to watch on the little TV, when the doctor returned with a half-smile, noticeably less cheerful. I’ll never forget what he said.
“I don’t want to be a bummer, guys…but I think it’s best to assume that this is over.” Reading the words written down makes it sound so insensitive but he wasn’t at all insensitive. He was perfect. Empathetic. Supportive. He went on to explain a few things and gave me instructions for when I got home. He stressed the importance of taking time to grieve, and added that he and his wife had a couple of miscarriages, but now they have four beautiful children. “It’s just sort of God’s way of teaching you patience and saying, ‘not this time.’”
“Hungry.”
It was the only word I could manage to get out as I buckled my seatbelt for the ride home. “Milkshake.” We drove to a Braum’s store down the street from the hospital. My husband went in, leaving me with my daughter in the truck. I kept trying to hold it together, like I had on the ride to the hospital, but it didn’t work. Within a minute, my jeans and t-shirt were soaked with tears. My precious daughter told me that I must be really sick to be crying so much. “I am,” I said. “Mom…I know how you feel.” Of course she didn’t know, but it was very sweet of her to try to be comforting. She hugged me tight; I cried harder.
The ride home was a blur. The next thing I remember is my husband and I standing in the kitchen. Actually, I wasn’t so much standing as I was holding onto him with what little strength I had, sobbing. I don’t remember getting in bed, but at some point I did, and my husband brought me my burger, fries, and shake on a tray that an attorney I work with had given us as a wedding gift. By the time I talked myself into eating, the milkshake had mostly melted and the food was ice cold but I didn't care. Ice cold and melty was how I felt anyway.
I spent the next several hours in bed, either crying or sleeping. The same was true of the day that followed.
On the second day, August 17, my daughter went to school and my husband went to work. I was alone. I slept. I cried. I fasted. I called my mother and told her what was happening. At some point I went to the bathroom and, before flushing, saw a little gray blob in the toilet.
Tissue, I thought. The papers the doctor gave me said I would pass bluish-gray "tissue." I'm not so stupid that I didn't know that the "tissue" was Baby Appleseed. I collapsed there in front of the toilet, screaming, sobbing, heaving. It took forever to convince myself to flush.
There. I'd just given my baby the same send-off our fish had gotten.
The next day was Tuesday, August 18. It was to have been the day of my first prenatal appointment. Instead, I had more blood drawn to check HCG levels, so that they could be compared to the lab results from the weekend...to confirm that the miscarriage was "taking care of itself." We met with the nurse practitioner. She told us to take our time grieving. "Just because it was early, doesn't mean you weren't attached," she said.
She was so right...I was only five and a half weeks along, and we'd only known for a week...but we were already so in love with our baby.
And now, that baby was gone.
It seemed like a terrible dream: I woke up from a nap, and suddenly I wasn't pregnant anymore.
