March.
I had a miscarriage this weekend. I was nine weeks pregnant. We had decided to start trying at the beginning of this year. The timing was compelling: I'm 34, a part-time student, and have a year and a half ahead of me of waiting to start a nursing program (if I get in), and he just got a good job. We both felt that this was an adventure we wanted in our lives, and now is the time to have it if it's going to happen. We knew that it takes some couples months or years to conceive, so getting a start seemed good. Bang! First month.
We hadn't expected success so early. We were both very excited, very nervous and just slightly ambivalent. Maybe it's not a good idea after all? But we're committed, and I start reading up on what's going on each week of development, taking prenatal vitamins, and signing up for Medi-Cal to pay for related healthcare. We rubbed lotion on my abdomen every day and talked name ideas. Definitely hyphenated surname; it's the only compromise we can both live with. And given names will definitely be off the beaten path. It was incredibly weird, overall, and I often couldn't decide how I felt about it. It was also hard not telling people. I'm not good at that. I think I also shape my reality in part by bouncing it off of other people, so it increased my sense of ambivalence to keep quiet about it.
It took a couple weeks to get into the Medi-Cal system, and the earliest appointment I could get was for later in April. At seven weeks, my doctor friend snuck us into UCSF emergency department the back way and did an informal ultrasound. There it was, a tiny, flickering thing. That's it. No distinguishable head or even which end was up. Just a quick, regular flicker. The sense of surreality was not diminished, nor was the ambivalence. The overwhelming weight of impending responsibility seemed much more real than the flickering thing. I didn't feel the immediate, melting maternal love that the baby book seemed to assume would be coursing through my heart from the first appearance of the line on the pregnancy test. What was wrong with me?
We continued to make plans, tried to stay positive and excited, talked over concerns. One of my biggest was taking on the 50's traditional gender roles during these few months. He would be the sole breadwinner (aside from the occasional freelance writing assignment I'd pull in), and I'd be the stay-at-home mother and homemaker. Terrifying for both of us, and not something we'd ever longed for. Still, it's the pragmatic thing, and it's temporary, and I'm mostly able to believe my personality won't disappear with a pop. With a little support from my friends, I'll be able to be an artsy weirdo mom with lots of interests and projects, a Bohemian San Francisco hippie parent, and not June Cleaver.
Besides the awesome Dr. K, who has been in on it since the beginning, I broke down and told the squid and two of my other closest and oldest friends, all of whom were thrilled and wanted to be part of the child's life. I felt a little more excited and a little less scared. I decided to wait before telling anyone else just in case. Three months is when the stats say it's safe.
This Friday I had a little bit of blood spotting. Hardly anything. No pain or cramps. Dr. K had offered another guerrilla ultrasound anyway, so we dropped by to see what was going on. I expected to be reassured and sent home. Instead, she couldn't see any flickering. She had me registered as an official patient and told everyone that I was her sister to speed up my care. They took me up to OB/GYN for more detailed ultrasounds in case there was some mistake or weird positioning. But no. The flicker had gone out.
It was a very sad moment. I'm glad we had each other, though, and we had Dr. K, who really is my sister in my heart.
Even though it was never anything more than a flicker, not really, not a baby or even a fetus - just an embryo - I miss it. Even though I wasn't sure how I felt about being pregnant, I would much, much rather still be. Though the crushing weight of impending responsibility was terrifying, we both would be very glad to have it hanging over our heads again. And that's what we learned. We learned that we really, truly want to be parents. And that is worth knowing.
I'm trying to stay upbeat and just look forward to getting started again, but the sadness sneaks in through the cracks from time to time. We have to wait till my cycle resumes in a month or so, and then we're off! like a day at the races.
Since my body hadn't figured out yet that anything was wrong, the hospital suggested that I either take some drugs or have a procedure to expel what was left. I took the drugs, and they made me nauseous as hell for about 24 hours, but didn't work. So I had a procedure, an MUA. You can google it if you want to. It was terribly uncomfortable for about five minutes, and then it was over. Dr. K went with me because she is awesome.
I think my body is still trying to figure out what's going on. Which I guess is ok, because so is the rest of me. I suppose that's what you do when you lose something you valued. Maybe you cry some tears, maybe a little blood too. You think about what it was like having it once, and now not having it. Eventually you look up and notice that it's springtime and the sun is out and the flowers are blooming and the birds are chirping. The tears and the blood dry up, and you feel hopeful and strong and sexy, like you could make something new and exciting with this very nice boy here. And you give it your best try.
We hadn't expected success so early. We were both very excited, very nervous and just slightly ambivalent. Maybe it's not a good idea after all? But we're committed, and I start reading up on what's going on each week of development, taking prenatal vitamins, and signing up for Medi-Cal to pay for related healthcare. We rubbed lotion on my abdomen every day and talked name ideas. Definitely hyphenated surname; it's the only compromise we can both live with. And given names will definitely be off the beaten path. It was incredibly weird, overall, and I often couldn't decide how I felt about it. It was also hard not telling people. I'm not good at that. I think I also shape my reality in part by bouncing it off of other people, so it increased my sense of ambivalence to keep quiet about it.
It took a couple weeks to get into the Medi-Cal system, and the earliest appointment I could get was for later in April. At seven weeks, my doctor friend snuck us into UCSF emergency department the back way and did an informal ultrasound. There it was, a tiny, flickering thing. That's it. No distinguishable head or even which end was up. Just a quick, regular flicker. The sense of surreality was not diminished, nor was the ambivalence. The overwhelming weight of impending responsibility seemed much more real than the flickering thing. I didn't feel the immediate, melting maternal love that the baby book seemed to assume would be coursing through my heart from the first appearance of the line on the pregnancy test. What was wrong with me?
We continued to make plans, tried to stay positive and excited, talked over concerns. One of my biggest was taking on the 50's traditional gender roles during these few months. He would be the sole breadwinner (aside from the occasional freelance writing assignment I'd pull in), and I'd be the stay-at-home mother and homemaker. Terrifying for both of us, and not something we'd ever longed for. Still, it's the pragmatic thing, and it's temporary, and I'm mostly able to believe my personality won't disappear with a pop. With a little support from my friends, I'll be able to be an artsy weirdo mom with lots of interests and projects, a Bohemian San Francisco hippie parent, and not June Cleaver.
Besides the awesome Dr. K, who has been in on it since the beginning, I broke down and told the squid and two of my other closest and oldest friends, all of whom were thrilled and wanted to be part of the child's life. I felt a little more excited and a little less scared. I decided to wait before telling anyone else just in case. Three months is when the stats say it's safe.
This Friday I had a little bit of blood spotting. Hardly anything. No pain or cramps. Dr. K had offered another guerrilla ultrasound anyway, so we dropped by to see what was going on. I expected to be reassured and sent home. Instead, she couldn't see any flickering. She had me registered as an official patient and told everyone that I was her sister to speed up my care. They took me up to OB/GYN for more detailed ultrasounds in case there was some mistake or weird positioning. But no. The flicker had gone out.
It was a very sad moment. I'm glad we had each other, though, and we had Dr. K, who really is my sister in my heart.
Even though it was never anything more than a flicker, not really, not a baby or even a fetus - just an embryo - I miss it. Even though I wasn't sure how I felt about being pregnant, I would much, much rather still be. Though the crushing weight of impending responsibility was terrifying, we both would be very glad to have it hanging over our heads again. And that's what we learned. We learned that we really, truly want to be parents. And that is worth knowing.
I'm trying to stay upbeat and just look forward to getting started again, but the sadness sneaks in through the cracks from time to time. We have to wait till my cycle resumes in a month or so, and then we're off! like a day at the races.
Since my body hadn't figured out yet that anything was wrong, the hospital suggested that I either take some drugs or have a procedure to expel what was left. I took the drugs, and they made me nauseous as hell for about 24 hours, but didn't work. So I had a procedure, an MUA. You can google it if you want to. It was terribly uncomfortable for about five minutes, and then it was over. Dr. K went with me because she is awesome.
I think my body is still trying to figure out what's going on. Which I guess is ok, because so is the rest of me. I suppose that's what you do when you lose something you valued. Maybe you cry some tears, maybe a little blood too. You think about what it was like having it once, and now not having it. Eventually you look up and notice that it's springtime and the sun is out and the flowers are blooming and the birds are chirping. The tears and the blood dry up, and you feel hopeful and strong and sexy, like you could make something new and exciting with this very nice boy here. And you give it your best try.