I want to finish my story. I want it to be there in detail, so I never forget any of it, but some days it is so, so hard to think about, to try to put into words, that I fear I won't be able to until the details have disappeared.

Stillborn

I guess, in some way, it might have been a blessing that they wouldn't be an open bed for us until 8pm that evening.  It was a horrendous day spent waiting, but I think it gave us at least some chance to try to absorb what we were about to face.

We arrived shortly before 8, and while we had been warned the process might be quite long, I was harboring hope that we would be the lucky ones where it all went very fast.

My first dose was in place by 8:30, and I eagerly awaited something.  Anything.  But it was really just a lot of waiting.  We were incredibly lucky to have a fantastic nurse who was very open with us about how things were likely to happen.  She brought us a memory box, filled with some silly trinkets, and some very useful things.  A thoughtful gift that can't begin to make up for what we were experiencing.

 Sometime around 1, they placed the second dose, and I quickly drifted back to sleep.  Around 3am, I woke up in a fair amount of pain. I sat up, which helped immensely, and soaked in the really quite beautiful view of downtown all lit up.  I cried a fair amount, not from physical pain, but from the horror of knowing that I needed to deliver my child, but that child would never take a breath.

Finally at 4:30, I felt the pain was bad enough that I needed an epidural.  Something that quite honestly terrified me, but that I didn't think I could go through this process without.

I was glad that we had such an early appointent for our ultrasound that Monday.  It was easier for me, work wise, but I was also eager to see my little one moving around, and have my worried thoughts put to rest.

Our ultrasound tech was new to us.  Her name may have been Heather.  She showed us to our room and I eased myself back onto the table (with my feet hanging off, I'm always just a little bit to long for everything.)

The image shown upon the screen.  The baby appeared to be curled into a ball, and I immediately knew.  The tech checked for the heartbeat, then wiped off my belly and said "I'll be right back."

Tears immediately began to slide down my cheeks.  The one thought that kept running through my head over and over was that I was going to have to tell my supervisor that I had been right when I thought something was wrong.

I'm not sure at what point Scott realized something was wrong, but he grabbed my hand well before the ultrasound tech left the room.

Eventually the doctor came in.  She said she was going to repeat the ultrasound, so we got to see largely the exact same thing we had just seen, then she rolled her chair to the light switch, flipped the light on, and said "I have some bad news."

I think I nodded and said "I know."

I think sometimes you try to predict how you would act in a given circumstance, and of course, you can never know until you're in that circumstance.  But sometimes it turns out that even when you're in that circumstance, you don't know how you're reacting.  All I could do was furiously wipe away tears.  I was barely able to spit out the words "what do we do?"  I know she kept asking if we had questions, but my mind was blank.

My belly had grown.  It was cute.  I've always been a little too chubby, and my growing belly made me a heck of a lot cuter.  I was so proud of it.  Wearing shirts that showed it off.  I'd waited so long, and had had such an easy pregnancy, it was so much fun.

And seeing our little one bop around during the ultrasounds.  Trying to make out all the different parts, see who he or she would look like.  All of the ultrasounds were great.  The baby looked great, my cervix looked great.  I started to feel secure, and excited.

I eagerly awaited the moment I'd feel movement.  I waited for it and longed for it and everyone assured me over and over that it would be any day, but I never felt anything.  Except that overwhelming wash of worry.

Settling In

There were a few early scares.  Some bleeding, of course, well timed, during my first month at a new job, and during the one month we were between insurance policies.  But an ultrasound (pricey – uninsured ultrasound) showed a healthy, moving baby.  Relief and joy washed over me.  I allowed myself to start believing in our baby.

A second early ultrasound showed that I may have a heart shaped uterus.  Dangerous words to throw out with little to no explanation.  This of course launched me into full scale panic.

This also led to some frequent, higher level ultrasounds.  After the first, it was decided that my uterus itself would be a-okay.  I may have to have a c-section as the baby would likely not have room to turn, but otherwise all should be well.  There was concern that my cervix may not be stable.  So, frequent ultrasounds were scheduled to make sure it didn’t deteriorate before its time.

A Positive

Book club came along.  I spent the night chatting and polishing off an entire bottle of wine on my own.  The next morning I woke and it occurred to me that while I hadn’t been tracking my cycle, I certainly should have gotten my period by now.  But really, we’d been trying to long, it wasn’t as if there was any chance it was anything other than a screwy cycle.

But the test proved me wrong.

In spite of the reliability of a positive pregnancy test, I was rather disbelieving.  I mentioned it to Scott, and we both went on with our day.

We set up a series of blood tests, my HCG levels rose beautifully through each, and we allowed ourselves to have a bit of hope.

Frustration

We spent the next months trying diligently.  There was the 4:30 alarm so I could take my temperature.  There were ovulation strips to best estimate when I was about to ovulate.  There was Clomid, and the horrible side effects that come with it, hot flashes, a week of insanely dark depression each month.  Thankfully there were also copious amounts of sex, the good part of all of it. 

But all of it boiled down to nothing more than frustration and tears.

Finally, enough was enough.  I couldn’t handle it any more.  I’d always hated the term, but Scott and I decided it was time to “take a break.”  Mentally, I just couldn’t handle it any more.  I didn’t want to spend each day being reminded just how hard this was.

So, we did just that.  I enrolled in a fantastic yoga class.  We made plans to train for a half marathon.  I went and got a fabulous massage.  I focused on anything but childbearing, and my mood lifted considerably.  Yoga was the best, and I spent a lot of time focusing on breathing.  I felt peaceful.

favorite part of the day

We're closing in on it.  The part of the day where I get to take my sleeping pill.  Then shortly after, my vision begins to blur, and I fall into a blissful 10-12 hours of sleep.

First loss

It had been nearly a year when a faint line finally appeared on a pregnancy test one February morning.  I should have been overjoyed, but deep down I knew that this wasn’t it, that this wasn’t going to be our baby.  

I spent an overly long lunch trying to get a blood test.  The lab closest to work claimed they haven’t received the lab order, so after a tearful call to my nurse, I frantically drove to the main lab, far from work.

Several hours later my nurse called, her voice telling all.  I was indeed pregnant, but the number was extremely low, and based on the date I ovulated, it didn’t look good, but they would have me go in for a second blood test 48 hours later to confirm either way.

I didn’t need confirmation, I already knew.  I came home that night and had to wish my husband a happy anniversary tied in with the news that I was pregnant, but having a miscarriage.

Perhaps the most well time blizzard in history was scheduled for the next day, so Scott and I cozied up and did whatever we could to take our mind off of things, and that night I started to bleed.

In spite of it all, my doctor took it as a fantastic sign that at least now we knew that I could be pregnant, that my body could manage that.  But that didn’t dull the pain or the loss.

Mourning Milk

I fought as hard as I could, wanting to hold on to every last possible shred of sleep, but eventually there was no denying that there was no more to be had.

I pulled myself from bed, my body aching from the various bindings, both my belly and my breasts, in hopes that I won't have to look at them and remember what we've lost any longer than absolutely necessary.

I tugged at the velcro holding my breasts flat as can be, eager to rush to the shower, only to find my bra wet with the milk that I don't need.

Every day there is just one one more thing that adds to the stress and pain of this all.

Increasingly Surreal

I am telling you, this experience just gets more and more surreal.

An hour ago I was sitting in a funeral home making arrangements for my baby's remains.  How did I end up here?

We had to sign a release to the funeral home of our choice before we could be discharged from the hospital.  We chose the funeral home at the top of the list; it took the least amount of effort.  The social worker warned us that any funeral home we chose would make us come in to make the arrangements.

It was a funeral home.  They're never the happiest places.  But it's strange to find yourself walking into one anyway.  The uncomfortable hush...

I was slightly shaken.  I grabbed a conveniently located kleenex on my way down the hall, then stumbled and barely avoided plummeting down the stairs. 

The woman we worked with was really very nice. Maybe a little bit clueless, but obviously well meaning.  I think she's got a pretty good grasp on grief too.  As uncomfortable as I expected the whole thing to be, it actually turned out to be less uncomfortable than wandering through Target shortly before our appointment.

So, the arrangements are made.  Since there was no medical use we could donate our baby to, we will have him or her cremated.  Which, or course, means we have the problem of an urn.  In order to pick up the ashes in a couple of weeks, we need to have a sealed container.  Quite honestly, tupperware would probably be just find until I can find a container that I feel is a suitable tribute to our baby, but I just wouldn't be able to convince myself to do that.  So, I will be off to shop for an urn for my baby (though it won't be an "urn," that's a bit too morbid for me.)  I suspect there will be an awful lot of tears involved.

First thought

No one's first thought upon waking should ever be "we need to call the funeral home today to have them pick up our baby."

That was the only thought, repeating itself, as I tried to wrestle myself back into sleep this morning.  Eventually the tears won.  I unwound myself from the pile of blankets and headed to the bathroom to once again wash away the signs of childbirth from my tired, aching body.  I don't have the energy to think about showering, so I sit, wrapped in my robe, wishing this hadn't all just happened to me.

I have no idea how to get through today.  I can't even start to think about tomorrow.