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Week 4
I’m pregnant. I don’t need to
take a test, I can smell it.
I take the test anyway (my husband prefers more
tangible proof): only one line. I throw it into the bin, baffled, while
wondering out loud what else I could be if not pregnant. My husband rolls his
eyes and tells me the results take longer than 30 seconds (he’s an expert now, apparently). He picks the test
out of the bin before dropping it again, shrieking, “WHICH END DID YOU PEE
ON?!” I take the non-pee end: two lines.
Week 5 (end of)
My husband’s away; I send him
a message: “Cramps and bleeding this morning. Looks like this one’s over.” I
now respond to miscarriage with resignation rather than shock. At least it was
early this time, I think.
Week 6 (start of)
I go to the doctor to tell
her about the blood. She freaks out and sends me to the hospital immediately
for an anti-D injection (this is the downside to having my particular blood type). The emergency department responds to my arrival with
the exact opposite amount of urgency. I sit and wait and wander and wait and
cry and wait, and wait and wait some more. Nine and a half hours later I’m shown into a room. The obstetrician is
uncomfortable with the fact that our meeting has started with so many tears
from me. “Have you taken anything for the pain?” she asks. I tell her I’m not
in pain, I’m just completely overwhelmed with how utterly shitty my day – nay, month – has been. She hands me a tissue
and apologises for the wait and talks for a bit. Then, when my tears continue
(I’m trying to stop! I really am), she asks again, “Do you want to take something for
the pain?”
She does an ultrasound. She
tells me there’s no heartbeat, and there’s haemorrhaging; it looks like a
miscarriage. She’s sorry. Her words aren’t news to me; I gave up all hope at
the first sight of blood, two days ago. She makes me an appointment for the
following day to talk to someone else at the hospital about what happens next,
then she gives me the injection I’d waited so long for and sends me on my way.
The nurses apologise repeatedly as I leave the hospital. I don’t have the
energy to smile at them.
Week 6 (start of) – the
next day
At
this point I feel like I should have pro-life activists camping on my front
lawn and waving signs at my uterus when I walk to and from my car: “Everyone
should have a birthday!” “Abortion – Aren’t you forgetting someone?“ You’ve
grown a baby before, remember, body? WHY THE HELL CAN’T YOU JUST DO IT AGAIN?!
I arrive at my afternoon appointment
and wait in the “quiet” waiting room (the one where they send the women who
might not want to be surrounded by pregnant bellies). It’ll be an internal
ultrasound this time.
“There’s a heartbeat!” the
doctor tells me with a giant smile, and I say, “What?!” and she says, “There’s
a heartbeat! Look!” She’s turned the screen around so that it’s now facing me,
and she points and says, “Can you see it?” The screen is a grey blur - damn these tears! - but I nod anyway.
The haemorrhage is a blood
clot; more bleeding or spotting is to be expected. My one sign that things are
wrong has now been taken away from me. From now on I’ll have absolutely no idea
whether or not that little heart is still beating.
Sorry for yelling at you
this morning, body. Carry on. (But please be nice.)
Oh! Oh! Oh!!! So excited for you!!!
ReplyDeleteWow... Hope you can get through the days despite the understandable anxiety you must be feeling. Will pray for some supernatural peace.
ReplyDeleteAgain, I love how you write.
ReplyDeleteOh! I don't know whether to laugh or cry! I'm so glad things are ok at this point. Will keep praying for you all! xoxo
ReplyDelete