New Beginnings

I'll try to keep this post to a manageable length, even though all I feel and want to say could probably fill several books.

As long as I've been old enough to understand how women's bodies work I've had a terrible fear of having children. Not raising them, or loving them, but actually getting pregnant and birthing them. It's something that, even as a young teen, I've wanted more than anything. But I understood even then that I might never be blessed to carry my own children.

You see, I'd watched the women in my family suffer with endometriosis and knew there was a good chance that I would too. For the first few years I had a period things went smoothly, I was regular and practically pain free. But I just had a feeling that it wasn't going to last. 

When I was sixteen everything changed. It was sudden and frightening, and above all painful like I'd never experienced before. I would say I handle pain pretty well, but this deep ache had me on the floor unable to move other than to writhe in an effort to try to stop it.

Several doctors later, several of which didn't even believed me that it really was that bad and one who thought I was just messing around with boys and wanted a free pass in front of my mom, and I was on a steady stream of birth control pills.

I stuck with them through ups and downs and blood clots, because of the hope that it would stunt the growth of the endo enough that I would be able to have my own children someday. I met a great guy, and we enjoyed three years of blissful marriage before we felt it was time to start trying. 

I was ecstatic and nervous and anxious all in one. What if it didn't work? What if it had already been too late years before and the birth control did nothing? What if it took us years to get pregnant? What if, what if, what if?

I did everything I could think of the make it happen. I got on prenatals months before we planned to start trying. I changed my diet, and started running several times a week. I was as fit and happy as I could be and it was time. I followed an app to chart everything to time things right. I peed on more little sticks than I'd care to know to find what day I ovulated, and became a bit of a tyrant to my husband though the whole process.

But one cycle passed, then two. I started to lose hope that it was possible. My optimism of the start waned rapidly. I stuck with my goals, but I lost hope that anything would come of my efforts.

A third cycle and one morning two weeks after I'd ovulated I half heartedly sat staring at a little stick. I knew what it would show, but I needed the confirmation so I could get on with my next few weeks and forget about baby making for a while.

But to my shock and utter disbelief I saw something. A line so faint I wondered if I was seeing things. So I took another test, and then another. (Thank goodness for Amazon and buying these in bulk!) But it was the same every time. I ran to the closest store and got a high tech, super fancy test. I had to be sure! I couldn't rely on a simple line, I needed it spelled out clearly: pregnant or not pregnant.

But my dream had come true. After only two and a half months I was pregnant and already planning a nursery theme.

I planned out an elaborate reveal for my husband and filmed it at a beautiful location. We had a photo shoot after and everything was perfect. He was just as excited as I was, and by the end of the night we had names picked out for both boys and girls, or even twins! 

We talked about waiting to tell family until after the first appointment, but we were just too excited! We surprised our parents, and then started telling everyone we knew.

We enjoyed two blissful weeks, wrapped up in our own happiness as we dreamed about the next nine months. But then the bleeding started.

I consoled myself the first time I noticed. I'd had a hard day at work, I would call in sick the next day and take a long weekend to rest. It was normal to see a little blood during the first trimester. I wasn't cramping so it couldn't be... no it wasn't possible. I'd know!

I rested and it stopped, we all breathed a sigh of relief. 

But a few days later it started again, just a little. I moved carefully and took it easy. It got better. Then it got worse. I broke down and cried. I yelled at god not to take this from me. I calmed down and told myself to relax and assume the best. I'd be going in for the first appointment at seven weeks in a few days.

The bleeding stopped.

Then on Valentine's day we relaxed and did finger foods and a movie at home. Something was wrong, I felt sick. I tossed and turned all night. Should we go in to the ER? Should we just wait one more day for the appointment? 

By three in the morning I had my answer. The blood was coming fast and heavy. I grabbed a pad and lay in bed for a moment asking god why he was taking this from me.

I woke my husband. Yes, it was getting worse. No, I don't think we should wait. Bring your charger in case we're there for a while.

I was in a daze the whole way there. The streets were empty and the snow falling made for a peaceful and quiet atmosphere. There was no one else in the ER that early and we were taken straight back. 

Several tests and exams later words I dreaded to hear sounded in that little private room. I'd known as I watched the ultrasound tech barely glance at my uterus, then spend ten minutes checking my right ovary and tube.

I held myself together remarkably well as the doctor explained it was an ectopic pregnancy, and that they were going to transfer me to a bigger hospital for emergency surgery. He assured us that he'd get the paperwork done quickly and be right back.

Once he left the room I crumbled. I could barely explain to my husband what that meant between sobs. We were going to lose this baby, one that we had both looked forward to so much.

In the course of a day I lost my child, my right tube, and my innocent hope that things were going to be okay. I'd thought that getting pregnant was going to be the hard part. I'd had no idea that it was only the beginning.

I spent the next three weeks weaker than even the time I'd had multiple pulmonary emoboli. I struggled to sit up, to walk, to even dress myself. Through it all my husband was my rock. He held me steady through my pain, my anger, my grief, and my healing. I had too much time to think without being able to go back to work. 

Then when I did go back to work and back out into public I had to face all the well meaning platitudes and encouragements. Sometimes I had to hide in the bathroom and cry. Sometimes I imagined punching peoples teeth in.

It wasn't alright! It didn't matter that we could 'have another one'! I didn't care that they'd been through the same thing and still had another kid after! I was hurting RIGHT NOW and no amount of 'somedays' was going to give me back my baby!

My anger turned to depression. I held onto that depression tightly because I wasn't ready to let my baby go yet. I couldn't forget them, they'd existed even if I was never going to hold them in my arms.

But little by little I did heal. The incisions closed, the stitches came out, and I let my heart open again.

Because I am an incurable nerd I found solace in a Star Trek quote. Kaiidth. What is, is. For the first time in weeks I felt at peace. I still hurt, but that was okay. I was allowed to be in pain and mourn. But no amount of wishing was going to change the past. I'd lost my baby, nothing was going to change that. But it didn't have to be the end of the story. 

I did what I needed to heal. After six long weeks I felt almost back to normal if you ignored the scars. The doctor told us it was safe to try again. Our chances were reduced with only one tube, but it wasn't impossible. I wasn't sure if I was ready to try again, but I knew I wasn't ready not to. So was began again, charting, watching, trying, and praying. 

Another two week wait later I was in a familiar position. I sat, with little hope that it would happen. I just wanted to know if I was free to ignore it for another couple of weeks.

But ever so faintly...I saw a second line.