Ancient History

I was pregnant once. For 7 weeks and 4 days. But I didn't know the pregnancy had ended until 11 weeks. It was 2001.

I happened upon another blogger's pregnancy story this afternoon, and as she recounted showing her ultrasound to the grandparents, I felt a punch in my stomach. My miscarriage is a part of our history, but it doesn't usually hit me like this. Today, I vividly remembered every detail, and it hurt.

I may ramble a bit here, but I really want to share this today. Big Daddy and I were married in 1996, and I didn't want children. He respected my wishes. My wishes changed around 1999, but we had trouble getting pregnant. To borrow what I've heard others say before, I tried to NOT get pregnant for 10 years, and then when I wanted to get pregnant, I couldn't.

We discussed how far we were willing to go with infertility treatments, and decided that we would stop short of injectible medications or IVF. We drew that line mainly because of finances and my fear of needles. So, I became a regular at my OB/GYN's office in the early morning hours before work. Ultrasounds, blood work (so much for my fear of needles), etc. Our final attempt at that point was IUI, for which Big Daddy was present. I'm a big crybaby, and when BD saw how hard it was for me to go through a procedure that's easy for others, he said, "Enough, no matter the outcome." The outcome was negative.

I agreed with BD's decision, and thank God that I never felt the crushing loss or incompleteness that so many people feel at being unable to conceive. Big Daddy and I were disappointed, but happy with our life, and resigned to the fact that that's how it would stay.

Fast forward a few months, and I was scheduled to have weight loss surgery. My surgery date was Tuesday, March 27th, 2001. On the Sunday prior to my surgery, I realized that my period was about two weeks late, but attributed it to anxiety about the surgery. Nevertheless, I dug through the drawer and found a leftover pregnancy test, and HOLY CRAP, it came up positive.

I am being completely honest here when I tell you I was devastated. It had taken a while to come to terms with the fact that we wouldn't have children, but I got there. I was excited about getting healthy and moving on. P.S., I was at my all-time high weight, and I was miserable.

BD and I went to Tom Thumb and bought 3 more pregnancy tests, which all came back glaringly positive. I remember crying, telling him, "I can't live in this body for nine more months!"

I went first thing that Monday for a blood test, which obviously came back positive. I was still in shock, but no longer hysterical. I sure didn't understand God's timing, but I couldn't argue with it. In fact, we went straight from the OB's office to Babies R Us. Yeah, I shifted gears pretty quick. We called my parents, "Yeah, don't come see me in the hospital tomorrow, cause uhm...I'M PREGNANT!" It was really an exciting time.

Four weeks later, I had an ultrasound which showed that tiny little 6-week-old heartbeat just flashing and flashing and flashing. We were sure it was a girl! I don't remember much about the next few weeks, just that the weekend before my 11 week check-up, I felt a little strange, nothing more.

We went in for our 11-week check-up, and because I was high-risk (weight and age), I was scheduled for a glucose tolerance test and another ultrasound. I drank that gross crap for glucose tolerance and then went back for my ultrasound. I was looking at the screen as the tech was looking around in there (Argh) and I knew that I wasn't seeing what I should see. When the tech did the clicky measuring thing, 7w4d is what it said on the bottom of the screen. I knew that wasn't right. The tech then excused herself and went to get the doctor. I knew then. Big Daddy wouldn't accept it, but I knew.

My very sweet doctor came into the ultrasound room and looked at the screen, and said what we didn't want to hear, "I'm sorry..." He scheduled me for a D&C, and the rest is...well, it was awful. Because not only did I lose my baby, but anesthesia makes me sick, so BONUS! It sucked.

I never did have weight-loss surgery, because I was back in baby mode. We went through all of the minimally invasive measures again, with no results. And resigned ourselves again. It wasn't for a few more years that we seriously considered adoption.

About a year ago, I realized something ironic. My Tinkerbell was born the day after my D & C, in another part of the state, to a woman who wasn't willing to stop doing drugs in order to keep her children. And three+ years later, we found her and her sisters.

And I'll tell y'all more about that another time.