by The Wannabe Mom
As I pull away from my house, I check that my garage door closes completely. I glance at the clock. 8:47am. Perfect: 13 minutes until our appointment. I follow my hubby all the way across town. My air-conditioning is off. My radio is off. I inhale. I exhale. I am quiet and I pray.
…
I am pregnant. Six weeks and four days. I’m the girl I hate. I’m the girl who—after 18 months of trying to conceive—goes on vacation to Mexico and brings home HCG levels high enough to trigger two pink lines on a pregnancy test. Or 21 pregnancy tests.
I’m the girl who impresses her doctor with hormone levels that double perfectly during those initial BETA blood tests. I’m the girl who thinks she’s the exception to the rule–the one who gets pregnant by “taking a break” and “relaxing.” I’m the girl who thinks she is oh-so-lucky.
…
The nurse tells me this sonogram will be just like all the others. She will look at my uterus. She will look at my ovaries. She will look for my baby. She will not speak because she will be measuring. I glance at my hubby who winks at me from across the room. I inhale. I exhale. I am quiet and I beg.
…
I watch her face. I should look up at those flower and animal pictures on the ceiling, but I don’t. I look straight at her face. She says my uterus looks good. My ovaries look good. Her face flushes. I watch the blood rush from her forehead—over her cheeks—and down to her chin. Baby is there. Baby is tiny. Baby doesn’t have a heartbeat.
We sit in an office. The nurse comes to show us the sonogram picture. She explains how Baby is measuring too small–4 weeks and 5 days. She says it may be fine. Our dates could be off. She wants to repeat the sonogram in seven days. Seven days of waiting and wondering–torture. I know my dates are spot-on. My eyes swell with tears. I go numb. My hubby asks if she’s seen other babies with similar measurements survive and thrive. He asks for our “chances in percentages.”
I groan. I demand another BETA blood test. She draws my blood. I don’t inhale. I don’t exhale. I refuse to take that sonogram picture of Baby.
I am quiet, and I sob.
…
I get in my car. It’s hot, but I leave the air conditioning off. I don’t want to hear the fan. I don’t turn-on the radio. I don’t want to hear music. I drive. I do hear my thoughts–dark, horrible, angry thoughts. The tears stream down my face. I see the man in the truck next to me wondering. “What the hell happened to her?”
…
The nurse calls. Finally. Three hours later. My HCG level is 300. It should be over 10,000. I’m quiet on the phone. She apologizes like it’s her fault. She tells me what I already know—no more Baby. She instructs me to stop my progesterone supplements. She explains that Baby is half an inch and will pass naturally. It will feel like a period. I should be fine by this time next week. Riiigghhttt–fine by this time next week.
I gag.
…
My hubby meets me at home. He breaks. He sobs. We lay in our bed. He rubs my back. I whisper to him what the nurse said. We cry some more.
…
That night we order Gumby’s Pokey Sticks. Comfort food. As I dip mine in Ranch, my hubby speaks. He tells me there will come a day—sooner rather than later—when we will sit at this table dressed just like this in our jammies. We will be surrounded by pink or blue balloons and lots of flowers. It will be our first night home from the hospital, and I’ll be too tired to cook.
We’ll order Pokey Sticks and I’ll dip mine in Ranch with one hand while I hold our new baby in the other. And we will be fine. I know he is right, and I nod. In that moment I love him more than I have every loved anyone. I close my eyes. I am still quiet.
I begin to heal.
The Wannabe Mom has been trying to conceive for more than a year and was recently diagnosed with unexplained infertility. She and her husband live and work in Champaign, and they desperately want to drive a Toyota Sienna minivan someday. We’ll be following her journey, so buckle up and get ready to cry with her — and cheer her on, too.