I was pregnant

I was pregnant. And now I'm not.

I got the positive test on Thanksgiving morning. I had started to suspect it a couple days before, just like with Luke, and anxiously waited until I was really late to test. But I was still blown away at seeing the two lines. Once you've experienced years of infertility, it's hard to ever fully believe your body can do anything right. 

Thanks to the holiday, I had to wait five days to get a blood draw. It took forever, but I finally received the results almost a week after my positive test and they were good. My progesterone was high enough that my doctor didn't think I needed supplementation, but I still asked for it, just to be safe, and started taking it the next day. 

I had my first ultrasound in mid-December. It didn't go well, at least according to my standards. I was 7 weeks, 4 days, but the baby was measuring 6 weeks, 0 days.  But we saw the heartbeat and it happened to be a healthy heart rate for a six-week old baby. "It's fine," everyone told me. "You just ovulated late." "The dating is off." "You have nothing to worry about." My OB assured me that she saw positive outcomes in similar situations all the time. I could still miscarry, but my odds were the same as everyone else's.  "You have a healthy earlier-than-you-thought pregnancy," she told me. "I'm putting your file away and not expecting you to call."

I went home and sobbed on the couch with a comforter over my head. I was inconsolable.

By the next day I had made a decision: My baby had a heart beat and was alive and I was going to have hope because I was that baby's mother. 

The next three weeks went better than expected. I was able to have a happy Christmas, enjoy our trip up north to see my family, and rejoiced that I was pregnant with Baby #4 on my 37th birthday. We told the kids and they were thrilled. Clara wanted a sister, Luke wanted a brother, Clara rubbed my belly, and Luke reminisced by talking a little too much about my c-section where my "skin was cut open" and he "was pulled out." I don't remember being that detailed when I explained it to him.

I had my moments. I knew I wouldn't be pregnant for long and, at times, I let that slip. I won't need maternity clothes, I told my mom. I won't be pregnant the next time I see you, I told my sisters. I feared my follow-up ultrasound appointment that was so, so far away but inching ever closer. 

Ryan had a work trip coming up - a freelance gig covering the National Championship Game for the BCS -  that would take him out of town for four days. I dreaded it for the obvious reason - all alone for four days with three kids and no family nearby - but I was also scared to death that I'd miscarry while he was gone. "That's crazy. Don't say that," he said. 

The first two-and-three-quarter days went great. Really, really well. The days flew by, no one came down with the stomach bug, everyone slept through the night (well, not Luke, but he doesn't count), and we were closing in on the last day. Baths were finished, jammies were on, and we were hanging out in the living room trying to catch a glimpse of daddy on the sidelines of the game on TV. 

That's when Clara happened to find a prayer card that I had stashed under a lamp in the living room way back around the time of that first ultrasound.  

"What's this?" she asked. I told her what it was. "Can you read it to me?" she asked. Of course, I said.

It's my absolute favorite prayer card. I cling to Our Lady's words during times of anxiety. But they've always been just that - words. Even in their most helpful moments, they were a two-dimensional reassurance.

I snuggled in my favorite chair with her and read aloud Our Lady's words to Juan Diego. Somewhere around the question "Am I not your Mother?" something happened. I'll take me about a thousand times longer to explain it than the time it took for it to actually happen - and I will not even remotely do the experience even close to any justice - but suddenly the words became real and very three-dimensional. And for a quarter of a second I understood everything and saw something. It was Our Lady, holding us and it was bright and it was colorful and it was warm. And I immediately understood that unlike the many times I had read the words before, and thought, Oh, how nice that Our Lady will help us out here on Earth, that what it really meant, what she was really telling us, was the we need not worry because Eternity awaits us. There is no need for anxiety when there is God, when we will one day be with God. I know those are just words on a computer screen right now, but they were REAL to me. And I felt in that moment, I saw in that flash, that Our Lady was holding all of us, she was holding me, and more specifically for me that night, she was holding my baby right then. And I burst into tears. 

They weren't sad tears. They were tears of being overwhelmed. I don't know exactly what it was that I felt or saw in my mind's eye, but it made me cry. 

Clara asked me what was wrong and I told her I was crying about the baby. About a minute later, I felt something wet and reached down to touch my pants. When I brought my hand back up there was blood on it. 

I jumped up and began to lose my mind. I ran to the bathroom, calling my mother on the way. "I'm bleeding!" I yelled into the phone. "From where?" she asked. I thought at the time how that was such a silly question. But to everyone else who wasn't expecting a miscarriage at every single moment, that statement could have meant I had cut my finger while chopping vegetables. 

My intense freak-out lasted about five minutes and then, as I walked around my bedroom frantically, I had the realization that my actions were not matching up with my thinking. My mind, for once, was calmer than I was outwardly acting. Slow down, I told myself. Don't freak out just because you think you're supposed to. Even then I knew it was just plain odd that my mind wasn't freaking out. I knew it had to be due to a force outside of myself. 

Things weren't okay, but I could handle it. I thought about calling my friend who had just left about an hour earlier, but I knew she had three kids to put to bed. So I texted another friend, Sarah, who is pregnant with her first. She responded in seconds. I later found out my mom (who lives many states away) had immediately gone on Facebook and sent messages to both of those same two friends, asking if they could come over and help. Sarah was on her way.

I didn't end up going to the ER that night like I had wanted. The on-call doctor assured me there was nothing the ER could do anyways, besides an ultrasound. But if it was waking up in the night in pain and bleeding that I feared, they weren't going to stop that. I would call my doctor in the morning. 

I assured Sarah she didn't have to sleep on my couch like she wanted to and also found out she had to go into work around 4 a.m., in just a few hours. And yet she did not even hesitate to come help me that night. The kindness and generosity of others during this entire experience has simply amazed me. 

I never thought I'd go to an OB appointment to confirm a miscarriage all by myself. Why would I? That would be a nightmare. And yet there I was, doing just that. Ryan was beside himself with grief and guilt. He couldn't believe he was on the other side of the country when this was happening. But he was and we had to make the best of it. And we were able to, thanks to more generosity. My other friend braved the cold and brought her three children to my house that morning to babysit my kids, and off I went to hear the terrible news.

The woman checking me in told me there was a balance on my account, but that I didn't have to pay it then because "you'll definitely be back!" I think she even ended with a second, "Definitely!" No I won't, I thought.

I waited among women at all stages of pregnancy, the ones who had regularly-scheduled appointments. Eventually they called me back and the nurse tried the Doppler. Not surprisingly, there was nothing. "I don't think we can fit you in for an ultrasound today," she told me. Oh, dear God, I thought. 

She left and then - thank God - returned to tell me they could squeeze me in and I was immediately ushered to the ultrasound room. "Are you alone?" the tech asked, because she wanted to know if it was okay to close the door behind me. I lost it at her question and shook my head 'yes' through the tears. She was very sweet and remembered me from last time, she said, as I cried. "Do you have any cramping?" I shook my head 'no'. "Do you have any bleeding?" I shook my head 'yes'. 

What happened next was just what I expected. No heartbeat, and the baby measured 6 weeks 1 day, one day further than at my last ultrasound in mid-December. Yet, yesterday, I was 10-and-a-half weeks into my pregnancy.

I cried off and on as I once again waited in the waiting room, when I read texts from family, as I waited in my doctor's office (her actual office, the one with the desk, which is where you go once you have no more baby), and as my doctor explained my options. But I was, for the most part, stable. Especially for being all alone. 

That afternoon wasn't bad, thanks to the extreme kindness of friends. I returned home and relieved my very generous friend who had spent half the day with all six kids. And before I knew it, my friend Sarah showed up with big bags of lunch, cupcakes, and bagels, and sat with me and my kids all afternoon during the time I baby-sat the little boy I watch. I can't tell you what that meant to me. 

I have been wondering why I have felt so strong because, honestly, I'm the weakest person I know. I have some theories. I think Ryan might sort of be my crutch (my fault, not his); when he's around I can fall into my typical emotional mess during difficult times. It's what I do because he is there. Without him, I simply can't. It's like when one of my kids gets badly injured - when blood is involved, or a bump the size of a soft-ball immediately protrudes from their skull. If I'm not alone, if someone else is there to help, I feel faint and my legs don't work. I am totally and completely useless. Yet, if I'm alone with them, I can handle it. I rise to the occasion because I have to. I'm pretty sure that's what happened the past couple days. 

I also believe that I mourned this loss back in December after that first ultrasound. Not that I think I won't continue to mourn it; I completely expect the grief to come in waves. But Tuesday was just confirmation of what I already knew. I actually felt relieved, in a way, to know I no longer had to pretend to be optimistic, since everyone but me believed all was fine. We could now move on from this weird limbo. 

My three children are also a huge reason why I believe this experience has been manageable so far. Not only do they keep me busy, but they remind me of all that I've been given. Blessing upon blessing upon blessing. And, since this all has happened, I can't help but stare at them and wonder how anyone is born. Life is so fragile in the womb. How did Luke make it? It's sometimes too much for me to think about for too long.

Of course, God's grace is ultimately the real reason behind my current stability and sense of peace. At some point yesterday I had the thought that, well, so much for all those prayers for a miracle I've begged God for during this pregnancy. Then I remembered the rope He threw me seconds before it all started, in the form of a prayer card, brought to me by my daughter, and the flash of inexplicable Divine Love and assurance that I experienced. That was my miracle. That was my answer to all those prayers. He thought of little me and gave me a gift that I could carry with me throughout the terrible experience that was about to come. And, I realized, that's what trusting Jesus is all about (a concept I've struggled with a lot in the past): He may not will the cup to pass us by, but He'll never leave us during our struggle. And, if we let Him, He may even become present to us in a very real way.  

And as for my baby, I have a very simple view of it right now - she is in Heaven, where we hope and pray all of our children will eventually be. Why should I mourn that? Yes, I mourn for me, but not for her. 

Trust me, that is of God because I'm not normally a rational thinker in times of stress. 

Is it odd that I'm sharing all this? I don't know. Maybe it is. I have been given a gift of peace in a difficult situation and I feel compelled to talk about it. I'm also selfishly sharing my story to ask for your prayers. The physically painful part is yet to come, and I would appreciate any prayers for that you are able to offer. 

Let me also state that I know how lucky I am to have experienced a pregnancy, let alone two. That is not lost on me at all. I thank God that I was able to conceive again, and marvel at the miracle of it, no matter how short a time it lasted. My prayers are always with those still waiting to become mothers, and I'll offer up the emotional and physical pain that is to come for all of you.