Today was supposed to be a big day for me: the day I (finally) announced my pregnancy to all my family and friends. I would have been 11 weeks.
I woke up this morning and like all mornings, the aching realization hit me: My baby is gone. This time though, I had an additional thought. Yes, my baby is gone but at least I know there is no other baby in me right now that could die as well.
I can’t remember if this extra thought made me feel better or worse.
My husband and I went to the state fair instead. I was bombarded by babies and toddlers but that is ok because I knew I would be. We go every year and the main attraction for us is walking around, looking at the exhibits and eating food we normally would not eat. Reflective me couldn’t help but remember this time last year at the fair when I asked my husband if we would have a baby by the same time the following year. I almost did. But almost doesn’t count.
Just a few days after the D & C, I got the pathology (don’t know if this is the correct term) report back. This surprised me because
Mr. Hardly Gives a Damn Mr. RE said it would be weeks before I got it back since tissues had to be sent to California. As suspected, the baby had a chromosomal abnormality, Trisomy 15. Trisomy 15 is one of the more rare abnormalities, so not much is really known about it. From what I read, it is just something that happens. That’s all I really know.
I also know that the baby was a girl. According to the report.
But I knew that already. Knew it in my heart, before I even had my first ultrasound. Seconds before Mr. RE told me that my baby had no heartbeat, I saw her face on the screen-just for a millisecond. I knew it was a girl’s face. How could I not know? Even though I only saw her briefly, I now see her every time I close my eyes. This is haunting, but comforting.
Does knowing with absolute certainty that she had an abnormality versus knowing that I could have done something to harm her development make me feel any better? I don’t know. I guess it does. It’s kind of like choosing between being shot in the head versus being shot in the heart. There’s also the general consensus that it was much better for this to happen early on than for it to happen later. Do I agree? Yes. But. . . there’s the selfish part of me that wishes it never happened at all. Why couldn’t I just be pregnant very briefly and never even know it happened? What was the purpose in all this? What was the sense in it?
Like most women, I was nervous about the ultrasound but never in a million years thought I would be told the baby had no heartbeat. I forgot to worry about it. To be honest, I only worried that the baby would not be measuring at 8 weeks. No heartbeat at all? Never saw that coming! I guess I went into shock or something. When the doctor told me, I could only respond with silence. When I did manage to speak, I think I said something along the lines of “Are you sure?” or something like that. I guess Mr. RE thought I was questioning his expertise because he gruffly told me I could get a second opinion if I wanted to. Keep in mind, I’m still in stirrups while this is going on. I wanted to get the hell out of there, but he insisted on typing “No FHB” on the screen before I was allowed to do so. I lost it seconds later; thank God my husband was with me.
So, I am left here with more questions and heartache than ever. Most of the questions start with “Why” followed with a slew of “What ifs” for the future. Right now, I am in limbo land. Still grieving. Still waiting. Always waiting.
Do I see myself trying again? What if it takes another two and a half years? What if this happens again? What if this baby was “the baby” and I never get another chance?
I can’t answer these questions and neither can anyone else. I do want to say thank you to everyone who stopped by and offered their support on my last post. I didn’t respond to many of them, but just knowing someone cared made everything much more bearable. I read the bulk of those comments moments before I went into surgery and they gave me the strength I needed for that day.
There’s a million more things I could say about the experience, but for now this is it. It’s funny how a little bit of writing changes things.