The Second One

When I found out I was pregnant in March, I was shocked. I had been on the birth control pill for years, and WTF isn't that supposed to be, essentially, an IRON CLAD CONTRACT between my OBGYN and my not-to-be-fertilized eggs? Well, apparently not, because HELLO there I was, birth-controlled up and still pregnant. And then almost as soon as I was pregnant, I was not pregnant, and I spent three excruciating days last spring miscarrying our first baby. It was horrible, and I would not, for all the money in the world, ever re-live that week.

As heart-breaking as that experience was, however, in the end it opened up an important dialogue between Preston and me about our marriage and its future and whether or not we wanted wee ones toddling into that future sooner rather than later.

Preston and I have been serious about our partnership and about our future together since 2003 - this was not the first time that children had entered into the discussion. Oh no. Preston and I named our babies when I was eighteen and he was twenty (and no, I will not tell you their names); children have always been in our future, but that future has always been mythical, far-off, and full of unicorns. Until last spring, when that future said HELLO I AM HERE PLEASE DEAL WITH ME NOW.

And so, we started talking about expanding our family - and not just, hey that would be fun because, y'know, babies are cute...and stuff. No, no. We looked at our finances - could we even afford to have a baby? We thought about moving, we talked about the future of both of our careers, about birth plans and midwives and diapers and values and church and education and - most importantly - where on earth we were going to put a crib in our apartment. This was not a decision into which we were entering lightly. We took it very seriously, and, to be honest, were both pretty excited. I'm smiling just thinking about it.

When I voiced these plans to my doctor in April, she told me that I needed to wait one to three months for my body to heal before trying to get pregnant again. So we did, and by late spring, two months after my miscarriage, my cycles were regular again and I was feeling good. We decided to start trying for a baby. My June cycle would be our test run - no basal body temperatures, no keeping of cervical mucus diaries, no obsessing about getting pregnant - just good, old-fashioned, um, activity. It would be casual! And fun! And we probably wouldn't even get pregnant on the first try!

Except that, by mid-June, when my breasts swelled up and threatened not to fit into the bridesmaid dress I'd bought in February, I started thinking that maybe I had gotten pregnant on the first try. Loss of appetite, serious nausea, a sense of smell that could rival Callie's, and utter exhaustion only strengthened my suspicion. When we returned from Virginia at the end of June, I immediately bought a pregnancy test, and sure enough, there was that second pink line - faint, but undeniably there. The line strengthened in the days that followed (and yes, I peed on MANY a stick), but never grew as dark as I wanted it to be.

And then, at the beginning of last week, I started spotting dark brown blood. Terrified, I immediately consulted The Internet (that most reliable of sources), and - much to my relief - I discovered that spotting in your first trimester - especially if it wasn't red - was within the realm of normalcy. I might have nothing to worry about.

Except that obviously I worried. Both my therapist and my doctor had warned me that this reaction - this terror in place of excitement, even without the spotting - was extremely common after miscarriage. But as the week progressed, and the spotting continued intermittently, the knot in my stomach grew heavier and heavier. I was terrified.

By Friday afternoon, the spotting had a tinge of dark red to it, and my heart sank - I knew that this was a bad sign. I waited out the weekend, trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to think about anything else. And sure enough, early on Monday morning, the miscarriage began. I felt it beginning even before I got up to go to the bathroom, where I passed the first of many blood clots. As I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, I didn't cry, but my feet felt like cinder blocks as I wound my way through our apartment and pulled myself back up onto our bed. I lay there for a few minutes, feeling my warm cheek against my cool pillow and watching Preston's chest rise and fall with steady, even breaths. And then I nudged him awake: "Pres?" I whispered. His blue eyes opened groggily, and he looked at me, "You ok?" "I think I'm having a miscarriage," I said quietly. And without another word, he pulled me against his chest and wrapped me his arms around me. "I'm sorry," he said. "Me too."

With Ness at my feet, I returned to a restless sleep, and when I woke up a few hours later, I swung my feet over the side of the bed before hanging my head as I rolled my neck back and forth. I got up and grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen from our dresser before pulling the heating pad out of the drawer, where it had been stowed away since April. In the bathroom I retrieved the enormous maxi-pads I had used during my last miscarriage - the kind that are so big they could probably moonlight as flotation devices were it not for the whole, you know, absorption of liquid thing. I padded into the kitchen, where I made fully caffeinated coffee for the first time in months. While I waited for it to brew I wiped the countertops and put away the dry dishes from the night before. When the coffee was ready, I retrieved an enormous mug from the cabinet and poured a full cup of coffee before adding generous splashes of soy milk.

I walked back into the den, where I heaved a sigh as I sat down, pulling the heating pad over my abdomen and an old blanket over my legs. And then I started to cry. Because I was crushed to have lost another baby. Because I was so angry at my body for betraying me. And because I just felt so helpless, and, frankly, pissed off that I was going to have to endure another three days of cramping and bleeding and maxi-pads the size of ARIZONA. Another three days of mint tea and lightheadedness, and having to tell my mother that she was not, in fact, going to be a grandmother. Again. But mostly, I was just really, really sad.

Now, two days later, we are still sad. Although I'm still bleeding lightly, I think I've passed most of the tissue, and I'm feeling much better than I did yesterday. Preston has been a champion - he has held me every time I've cried, and kissed me and told me he loves me even more often than usual. And you all - oh my goodness. You all. I cannot tell you how much Preston and I appreciate your love and support. Every comment, email, and voicemail has meant more to us than I can adequately express: I feel so lucky that you are part of our lives - that you are part of this corner of the internet. I am overwhelmed by your support, and truly touched by your thoughtful messages.

This story does have an epilogue, but I think I'll leave that for another day, since I've probably already blown up your Google Reader with a post longer than the Dead Sea Scrolls. But once again, from the bottom of my heart: thank you.