Miscarriage, Part 3

Paul and I were both shocked. That was crazy. I wasn’t supposed to be able to yet. After the last one, it was a couple months before I ovulated again. How did this happen? Well, we knew how it happened.

Apparently, we’re the two most fertile people on the planet.

We told almost no one. We scheduled our appointment. I got bloodwork.

My pregnancy hormones were out of this world high. The sonogram showed a fetal sac with the yolk sac inside. Everything was developing like it was supposed to. Even though we hadn’t waited for my next cycle, it looked like my body was ready for this one.  

Still, we were cautious. We kept it close, telling only those we knew would be prayerful and discreet with our news.

Then Paul went to work offshore again. We had decided months ago that if this opportunity presented itself, we’d take it. He’d take a job if it became available, and it had.

“What if something happens and I lose this one, too?”

“I’ve thought about that. I can come home immediately if anything goes wrong, but you’ve got Gabi if you need anything in the meantime. You’ve got Cassandra and Cheryl and Rachael. You’ve got a support system, and if you need me, I can be home in a matter of hours.”

“Okay. But I feel good about this one. I really feel pregnant now.”

We parted with wary hope.

A few days later found me 6 weeks pregnant. Then 6 weeks and a day.

I went to a sonogram at 6 weeks, 4 days.

I called Paul on a video chat.

We saw our baby. We saw the little spinal cord. Then the sonogram technician turned on the sound, and we heard our baby’s heartbeat. It was the most beautiful sound in the whole world. At a healthy 133 beats per minute. A strong heartbeat. My beautiful, perfect baby had a beautiful perfect heartbeat. We smiled and cried happy tears, agreeing we’d talk later after we let everyone know.

After getting a healthy heartbeat, you can get excited.

After a healthy heartbeat, your chances of miscarriage go down to between 1-3%.

And the likelihood of having three miscarriages in a row? Less than 1%.

I let go of my caution. I embraced my joy.

I giggled and wept all the way out of the doctor’s office. My doctor came out to hug me. The receptionist and the lady from billing came out from behind their desks to hug me and tell me they had been rooting for me. Everyone in the office cried happy tears with me. I told my grandparents, all my friends and coworkers. Everybody got to see my sonogram photo. I bought some maternity clothes. I put my hand on my belly and talked to the little baby growing inside me.

Those were the happiest 48 hours of my whole life.

The next day when I got home from work, I took a nap.

When I woke up, there was blood. Red, fresh blood.

I called Gabi. We went to the ER.

Blood work showed that I was still pregnant.

Sonogram showed that beautiful heartbeat again.

“There’s a baby in there alright. Just hangin out. Doin baby stuff,” the sonogram tech showed me.

Relief. Peace.

The doctor said, “That’s the best possible thing we could hope to see. I’m not saying that you couldn’t still miscarry, and we have no idea where the blood is coming from, but for now? You have a healthy baby. With a heartbeat.”

That weekend I got to see my oldest son get his gold belt in karate. He and his brothers came home with me for their weekend.

We watched lots of movies, we played video games, we cooked together.

The whole time I bled. I kept repeating to myself that there was a heartbeat. My baby was okay. My baby had a heartbeat. The bleeding was weird, but my body is weird. My baby was okay.

My baby was okay.

Saturday night after I put the boys to bed, I fell asleep on the couch. It was such a restful sleep. And the cats cuddled with me. It was beautiful.

I woke up to hear the boys playing together in their room.

My heart had never been more full.

My three big babies my husband gave me playing happily in our home, our baby growing safely inside my belly. We were all about to get ready for church.

Then I sneezed.

I felt it slip out. I felt that beautiful little life with it’s beautiful little heart beat just slip out of me.

I dug it out of the toilet and cut open the fetal sac until I found my tiny, blueberry-sized baby. I held her in my hands. I lay crying on the floor, our bathroom and me covered in blood and urine (I thought about leaving that part out, but this is about being honest). I clutched her close to me. I messaged Paul to call me ASAP. I called Gabi. I called my mom. Paul was figuring out how to come home. Gabi was getting out of the shower; she was on her way. My mom told me to listen, “Those little boys are there with you. They don’t know what’s happening. You need to get up. Get them breakfast. Put on some cartoons. They can probably hear you and they’re probably scared. Go focus on them until Gabi gets there.”

So I got up, washed my hands, and put my baby in a Ziploc baggie in the fridge.

The boys and I had cereal and watched cartoons. I told them that somebody I loved very much had died and I was very sad. They hugged me and cuddled me. Paul texted to say he had called their mom. She was on her way to get them.

Gabi showed up. Without prompting or comment, she took cleaning stuff into the bathroom and cleaned up everything. She sat and watched the stupid cartoons with us. The boys’ mom texted that she was close-by, so I sent the boys to clean their room and pack up. Gabi evaluated. Their mom arrived. They went home.

Gabi ordered pizza, and I took a Xanax.

Paul would be home in 6 hours, give or take. Gabi stayed with me that whole time.

We watched those cartoons longer than we should have after the boys left. Then we watched some stupid videos on YouTube. After that, she took me up to the school so I could get my computer and my papers to grade. Walking out of my classroom, I punched a locker. Then I kept punching the locker. I imagined cracking my knuckles open. I imagined raw, bloody fingers, and I felt relief.

I kept hitting the locker.

Gabi touched my shoulder, and I melted into a puddle on the floor. She sat down beside me, wrapping her arms around me.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” she whispered, pulling me close. We sat there for a while, with her holding me, and me sobbing into her hair. She pulled me up, and we walked to her car.

She listened as I called to tell my doctor. The doctor and Gabi both advised me to take the rest of the week off. We watched a Christmas movie once we got home. Then we waited for Paul.

Oh. Have I not mentioned that this was a week before Christmas?

After Paul arrived, we hugged that familiar, “Our-baby-just-died" hug.

He ate some pizza. The three of us chatted a while. Then Gabi went home.

Paul and I went to bed. I didn’t sleep. He didn’t sleep well. I watched Golden Girls reruns and put in plans for my substitute. I made an appointment with my therapist.

As happy as I had been only a handful of days before, I was now as far opposite as I’ve ever been. 

Paul and I went to my doctor’s office. He gave the Ziploc bag holding our baby to the person at the front desk to send off to a lab for testing. We sat in the lobby with all the happy families and their sonogram pictures and their big bellies and their hope.

My body didn’t hurt. This frustrated me. It angered me. How could I feel so much pain in my heart and my head, and my body just go about its business? I kept thinking back to when I punched the locker the day before. I fantasized about hitting bricks. I pictured myself raking my nails down concrete until my fingers were raw and bleeding.

I knew that wasn’t a good sign. I felt like had lost or at least was in the process of losing my mind. I knew not to do those things, but at the time they sounded nice.  

A sonogram technician called out my name. We went back. She asked, “What are you in for today? It looked like you just had one of these a few days ago.”

“Miscarriage,” I mumbled.

Sonogram showed that I was all clear. All the pregnancy tissue was gone.

We went back out and waited to see the doctor. We sat silently, holding hands and avoiding looking at a couple as they swooned over their sonogram picture. My face was salty and raw from the tears. I focused on a string in the carpet until they called us back again.

We went into the room and I climbed on the table.

By now, I’m used to the routine.

In the room next to us, we heard the loud thump-thump-thump-thump of a heartbeat. The exam room was beside the sonogram room.

I shot up and yelled through the wall, “Don’t get too excited! That doesn’t mean anything!”  

I regret that now. I hope they didn’t hear me.

I lay back to look at the funny pregnancy comics on the screen above the table. Then they started showing baby belly Halloween costumes.

I gasped.

Paul saw the screen and ran out of the room.

I turned over on my side and cried into my elbow.

He returned seconds later with the doctor and a nurse and a medical assistant who scrambled trying to turn off the screen, which was built into a wooden frame. There was no way to turn it off. Paul walked over beside the bed and pulled my face into his jacket. I breathed and cried and tried to think of anything else.

The doctor cleared out everybody else and spoke to us.

She was sorry this happened to us. Something was clearly wrong. She handed me a business card for Dallas IVF.

“I know it says IVF, but that’s not your only option. They’re really called fertility endocrinologists, and they’ll help you figure out what’s going on. It might be physiological, it my be genetic. It might be an easy fix, but they’ll help you get down to it.”

The next day was an appointment with my therapist. Paul went with me. She encouraged us to tell the boys. They know something was wrong, but just like adults, if they don’t know what’s happening, they’ll imagine the worst. We decided we’d tell them after the holiday.

Some other, pretty stressful events happened that week, but we tried to visit people and do something resembling Christmas.

A couple days after Christmas proper, we got the boys for Christmas with us. We told them what had happened. Unlike most adults, they were incredibly sensitive and tactful. They hugged us and told us they were sorry. They asked some thoughtful questions and we all held each other. It was a beautiful family moment.

On New Year’s Eve, a small group of our friends got together. While all my friends toasted to reading more, being more adventurous, finishing writing novels, losing weight, etc. The only toast I could think about?

“No dead babies in 2018!”