I've lived a pretty blessed life, so it makes sense that I naively thought this would be an easy trip. No flat tires, no detours, no traffic jams. I thoroughly expected to be already refusing champagne at my friend's wedding in June 2011.
But the first cycle came and went and no baby. I sighed. I cried. I was impatient and frustrated with my body for being less than perfect. But I kept at it. July? No dice. August? Sigh. No. September? Still empty. October? Drank and smoked at the Halloween party. No reason not to, right? Sigh.
In my brain, I knew that five months was the average and that there was no cause for concern. Many of my friends and family have had to wait a lot longer than that for their blessed miracle. After the fifth month I started to relax a little. This wasn't going to be a short trip, so I might as well enjoy the scenery. I still counted my cycle and timed our trying, but I was a little less frustrated by negative pregnancy tests. The thoughts of my emptiness did not consume my every waking moment by October and November.
And then...in November...that blessed positive pregnancy test! I was sitting in the bathtub, casually glancing at the plastic stick on the sink. I figured it'd be a negative like usual, so I was truly a little disengaged. But then I turned the stick to meet my gaze and...that word. That beautiful word. And no, this time there was no annoying "not" stamped in front of it. I told my husband and we both squealed with glee. We were going to be parents!
At Christmas we told family and friends. Sure, we were only 6-7 weeks pregnant then, but so what? We saw our baby's heartbeat on ultrasound at 6 weeks, and the chances of miscarrying were 5% at that point, or so the internet told us. The husband and I are both poker players and we kept saying "I'd play 95% odds"...and so we did.
But at 8 weeks and 4 days I began to spot. Just a little at first, so I freaked out and called my obgyn. They had me in and did an ultrasound, which ended on a high note. Baby was there, fine and showing a heartbeat of around 150 bpm. Big sigh of relief. Even though the spotting continued, it wasn't too bad. And when it got a little pinker at 9 weeks, I called the doctor's office and was once again told not to worry. I'm a paranoid person, so I told that little voice in the back of my brain to shove it. I went on vacation and tried to enjoy myself.
My first pregnancy should have ended in the maternity ward at the local hospital on August 17th, 2012. Instead, it ended in a Las Vegas ER at 4am on January 16th, 2012. The insensitive staff made jokes about never having seen a positive pregnancy test before. They asked which hotel we were staying at and if we were having a good time. I shot my husband a "not worth it" look as he was about to throttle the staff. Our nurse in the ER congratulated me on my pregnancy. Are you kidding me? At this point I had cramps and heavier bleeding. I knew this was the end and I just wanted to be home, not 28 hours away in the desert of sin city.
They wouldn't allow my husband in the ultrasound room, which has to be illegal. And while the woman was conducting the ultrasound she wouldn't speak to me or make eye contact. I know it's not her job to tell me, but laying there and watching her face in the hopes of catching some sort of sign was even worse than just knowing. She pulled out the transvaginal wand and it was saturated with blood. I wanted to die.
The ER doctor gave us the news. Thankfully, he was an actual human being unlike his colleagues. The prognosis? The baby was still there but there was no heartbeat and my pregnancy hormone was about 10% of what it should have been at almost 10 weeks. That meant miscarriage...and it was only a matter of time before I passed the "tissue".
Thankfully, my body held out until we were back in the windy city. A trip to the obgyn the next day was only supposed to be to confirm the ER's findings. Instead, it ended up being my baby's final resting place. When the doctor told me to undress for the examination I began to and instantly miscarried right into my hand. Blood splattered on the white tile of the examination room at the end of the hallway. I held the sac with my dead baby in my right hand and, shaking, I set it on the counter. This was the end. This was truly the end.
It took a while to make myself want to do anything except sit on the couch and stare off into space. I was angry at my body, the universe, luck. I went back to smoking for a couple of weeks because why not, right? Everything felt so unimportant compared to the loss of life and the changed outlook for my coming year.
Despite my sadness, I couldn't think of anything that would help me to heal more than continuing to try. Even though we had lost our first little one, we still wanted to be parents. In fact, I think we both wanted to be parents more than ever before. We had to wait six weeks until our follow up doctor's appointment, but thinking about the future and planning for our eventual parenthood helped the loss of our first little one seem like part of the journey rather than a horrific and depressing waste of time.
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