Monday, July 7, 2014

I Will Never Be the Same

On May 31st, Dave and I found out we were expecting. On July 1st we learned that our baby, who should have been 8 weeks old, never grew past 6 weeks. 

When I discovered I was pregnant, I read up about miscarriages, what caused them, the probability of it happening, if there was anything I could do to avoid it. I'm not a pessimistic person, I just work better if I educate myself as much as I can on topics. Knowing that this was common, that there was nothing I could have done differently, hasn't made this any easier. 

Walking into the doctors office, Dave and I were so excited. I couldn't stop talking about how I hoped to hear the heartbeat and take a video of it to share with family. When we got into the room, the woman gave Dave a goody bag and told him to fill in the cards to get freebies and coupons. He couldn't have filled that paperwork out any faster. When the doctor came in, I made a few crass jokes about the probe and laid down. I couldn't see the screen but Dave was able to, and that was more important to me. He would take it all in so much better. I wanted him to be able to say he saw our baby first. 

The doctor kept clicking and moving the wand around, and I could hear pictures from the ultrasound being printed out from underneath the machine. She was chatting with us the whole time, then asked me the one question I was dreading. The one I knew would mean that this happened to us. "Are you sure of your dates? I'm not seeing an 8 week fetus". I knew my dates. I would bet everything I had on knowing my dates. She showed Dave everything she was looking at and finally found the baby and measured it. She told us she was only measuring at 6 weeks and was going to try and measure again and look for a heartbeat. She never found one. She began to clean up and said that it was most likely a miscarriage, but that she could be wrong. She left the room so I could get dressed and I looked at Dave and lost it. I prepared myself for the possibility of this happening but I couldn't believe it actually did. 

When it came time to leave the room, I tearfully told Dave I couldn't go out there. I knew there would be a room full of pregnant women staring at me, they would know, like I had a huge red "M" on my shirt. I can't tell you how I got out of the office building, I just went on autopilot.  

Two days later, I went in for the second ultrasound to confirm that it was a miscarriage. I had to drink a ton of water before the scan and on the ride up to the office, I spilled water all over my pants, and it looked like I had peed myself. It was a 45 minute ride to the office and I was hoping my pants would dry enough that it didn't look that way, but that didn't happen. When we stepped out of the car, I broke down again crying to Dave, "Isn't it bad enough that we are here for what we are here for? Do I really need to go in there looking like I pissed myself?" I spent the rest of the visit telling every nurse within earshot that I hadn't pissed my pants to the point that it became a joke to Dave and I. I guess it's a good thing I could laugh at myself then, but it was so embarrassing. 

I always assumed miscarriages would be quick. It would start and be done and over with in a few days. It's been five days since I learned that the baby stopped growing and nearly three weeks since it has, and yet it's still in me. I think right now that's the hardest part. Why is my body holding on to it so tightly? Why can't I just let go? 

I have the D&C scheduled for today (Monday), in fact I'm probably at the hospital as you read this. I'm not going to lie, I'm terrified. I hate surgeries and going under, but I don't think I'm really going to start healing and moving past this until I do. I wake up in the middle of the night and the first thing I think of is the baby that will never be, and then I'm awake for hours. 

Dave and I talked about whether or not this was something I wanted to share here. I knew I needed to, that it would be therapeutic to write this out and throw it out to the universe.  I fear I will never move past this. That I'll never be over it. I'm afraid I'll have trouble conceiving in the future. I fear that I'll always think about this baby and what he or she could have become. I'm afraid one day I'll forget him or her. I'm afraid of what is to come and saddened by what will never be. 

I have my moments where I am okay and then I'm not. Writing this out has helped a little. I know with time, I'll be fine. I know that I've dealt with difficult things in the past and I've been strong enough to work through them, and I know I'm strong enough to work through this. I  just need time to find that strength.