"You've lost the baby. I'm so sorry," the technician said.
She gave me a look that was far too sympathetic for someone who just had a plastic wand stuck up my va-jay-jay. I knew I should have made her buy me dinner before we got freaky.
I didn't cry. Not right away. I guess I had to sit with it for a while and let the reality sink in.
I was only 24, but we had been trying for nearly four years to have a second baby. We did everything "right": tied the knot, bought a house, did all those parental things parents do. The cataclysm for those rather mature actions was now four - and siblingless despite his regular requests for one. Nobody was more excited for a new family member than Intrepid.
Now we had to go home and tell our preschooler there would be no baby this time. I knew he wouldn't understand, because I hardly did. My problem, I figured, was getting pregnant, not staying pregnant. This miscarriage stuff was balls.
When he cried... well, that's when my tears started to flow. Our family fell hard from the high we had been on only a few weeks earlier. Miscarriages do that, by the way. They're very real and very painful - every time. If you're ever helping someone through one, remember this: Give a hug, lend an ear, hold a hand, don't judge, don't minimize.
Stepping off my soapbox now.
Incidentally, why do people step on soapboxes to give speeches, anyway? Why not coconut boxes, or printer paper boxes? I bet they're less slippery.
Geekster said he needed a break from all this "trying to have a baby" business. I didn't want a break. I wanted a baby. Jerk. But thanks to some illustrated books my mom left on my bed when I was about 9, I was keenly aware it takes two people to do that sort of thing. And so I tearily put away the thermometer, ovulation charts, Taking Charge of Your Fertility book, and anything else that had been purposefully sitting by my bed for the last few years.
Taking a break sucked, by the way. Like, hugely. At first, anyway. I eventually got sneaky about things. Not in a "putting pin holes in the condom" sort of way, but in the "I can prep my body for creating beautiful life while I'm supposed to not be thinking about creating beautiful life" sort of way. I had my doctor put me on the fertility clinic waiting list, started exercising and seeing a naturopath (best thing I ever did). I got my driver's license, which was awesome because now I could be independently sneaky. I worked really, really hard on my innards. Like, "deserve a medal" hard.
On New Year's Eve, about nine months after the miscarriage, my husband hugged me tightly and asked, "So, when are we going to try for that baby, huh?"
Immediately, you wonderful jerk.
It took only two cycles this time. When the fertility clinic called, I was still staring in disbelief at a positive pregnancy test.
"I'm kind of already pregnant." I floated on my words like a magic carpet. It didn't seem possible.
"Wow!" the woman on the phone said. "We don't often get this kind of news when we call. That's wonderful. Congratulations!"
Fear crept into my voice, "But, could you please keep me on the list? I've... had losses before. I'm scared."
The woman, who was probably thinking she didn't get paid nearly enough to double as a crisis hotline, gently said, "Of course. But I hope things turn out well for you."
And they did. They really did.
Well, if you don't count:
- all the panicked calls to our practitioner over every little thing
- the "let's make you less nervous" ultrasound at eleven weeks when I burst into tears on the table at the sight of his little heartbeat and perfectly formed everythings. The tech didn't know if she should hold my hand or call for psych.
- the two trips to the closest hospital when A) I thought my water broke 20-something weeks in and B) he hadn't moved in several hours
- 27 hours of labour and a c-section because the gremlin had wrapped himself all snuggly-like in his umbilical cord and refused to come out (I always said it would take a stubborn little egg to cling to my unwilling uterus, so this was no big surprise.)
And into the world came he. Two weeks ahead of schedule and weighing a whopping ten pounds, four ounces.
Beautiful. Perfect. All ours.
"I can't believe you're finally here," I whispered, exhausted, joyful. "You're actually here."
A most happy 10th birthday to our little miracle. A decade later, you still take my breath away.
She gave me a look that was far too sympathetic for someone who just had a plastic wand stuck up my va-jay-jay. I knew I should have made her buy me dinner before we got freaky.
I didn't cry. Not right away. I guess I had to sit with it for a while and let the reality sink in.
I was only 24, but we had been trying for nearly four years to have a second baby. We did everything "right": tied the knot, bought a house, did all those parental things parents do. The cataclysm for those rather mature actions was now four - and siblingless despite his regular requests for one. Nobody was more excited for a new family member than Intrepid.
Now we had to go home and tell our preschooler there would be no baby this time. I knew he wouldn't understand, because I hardly did. My problem, I figured, was getting pregnant, not staying pregnant. This miscarriage stuff was balls.
When he cried... well, that's when my tears started to flow. Our family fell hard from the high we had been on only a few weeks earlier. Miscarriages do that, by the way. They're very real and very painful - every time. If you're ever helping someone through one, remember this: Give a hug, lend an ear, hold a hand, don't judge, don't minimize.
Stepping off my soapbox now.
Incidentally, why do people step on soapboxes to give speeches, anyway? Why not coconut boxes, or printer paper boxes? I bet they're less slippery.
Geekster said he needed a break from all this "trying to have a baby" business. I didn't want a break. I wanted a baby. Jerk. But thanks to some illustrated books my mom left on my bed when I was about 9, I was keenly aware it takes two people to do that sort of thing. And so I tearily put away the thermometer, ovulation charts, Taking Charge of Your Fertility book, and anything else that had been purposefully sitting by my bed for the last few years.
Taking a break sucked, by the way. Like, hugely. At first, anyway. I eventually got sneaky about things. Not in a "putting pin holes in the condom" sort of way, but in the "I can prep my body for creating beautiful life while I'm supposed to not be thinking about creating beautiful life" sort of way. I had my doctor put me on the fertility clinic waiting list, started exercising and seeing a naturopath (best thing I ever did). I got my driver's license, which was awesome because now I could be independently sneaky. I worked really, really hard on my innards. Like, "deserve a medal" hard.
On New Year's Eve, about nine months after the miscarriage, my husband hugged me tightly and asked, "So, when are we going to try for that baby, huh?"
Immediately, you wonderful jerk.
It took only two cycles this time. When the fertility clinic called, I was still staring in disbelief at a positive pregnancy test.
"I'm kind of already pregnant." I floated on my words like a magic carpet. It didn't seem possible.
"Wow!" the woman on the phone said. "We don't often get this kind of news when we call. That's wonderful. Congratulations!"
Fear crept into my voice, "But, could you please keep me on the list? I've... had losses before. I'm scared."
The woman, who was probably thinking she didn't get paid nearly enough to double as a crisis hotline, gently said, "Of course. But I hope things turn out well for you."
And they did. They really did.
Well, if you don't count:
- all the panicked calls to our practitioner over every little thing
- the "let's make you less nervous" ultrasound at eleven weeks when I burst into tears on the table at the sight of his little heartbeat and perfectly formed everythings. The tech didn't know if she should hold my hand or call for psych.
- the two trips to the closest hospital when A) I thought my water broke 20-something weeks in and B) he hadn't moved in several hours
- 27 hours of labour and a c-section because the gremlin had wrapped himself all snuggly-like in his umbilical cord and refused to come out (I always said it would take a stubborn little egg to cling to my unwilling uterus, so this was no big surprise.)
And into the world came he. Two weeks ahead of schedule and weighing a whopping ten pounds, four ounces.
Beautiful. Perfect. All ours.
"I can't believe you're finally here," I whispered, exhausted, joyful. "You're actually here."
A most happy 10th birthday to our little miracle. A decade later, you still take my breath away.
 |
| Gutsy with little bro Spawnling. My favourite part of this picture is how Spawnling is hugging and not strangling. See? Miracles do happen. |