"I'm sorry." The ultrasound technician was tapping away furiously at the keyboard. One hand on the wand and one hand on the computer. She squinted and scanned and scanned and scanned. I watched the gray images evolve on the flat screen TV mounted on the ceiling as if in a trance. My husband and five year old son were doing the same. "Where's the baby, mommy?" he wanted to know. "I'm sorry," the technician said again. She pulled out the wand and stopped typing, folded her hands in her lap, a practiced but sympathetic look on her face. "It looks like there is a pregnancy sac, but it's smaller than it should be at 8 weeks. I can't find a fetal pole or a heart beat. It looks like this pregnancy is not viable. I'm sorry. The doctor will speak to you next. You can get dressed now." My husband looks stunned with grief. My toddler looks confused and sad. He does not understand the medical terminology but he is clearly attuned to my facial expressions. I try to smile bravely at him but his face starts to crumple in anticipation of my tears. It feels like my world has tilted on its axis and the thoughts go through my head: There's no baby. There never was a baby. But there was! There was. I was hungry and tired and emotional. I had morning sickness. I took my vitamins.I peed on a stick. Two sticks in fact. I started not carrying heavy things. Then, absurdly: I'm not wearing any pants. No pants. Must get pants on. I guess I don't have to buy a new dress for my cousin's summer wedding. I guess I don't have to refuse alcohol at CE, not that I drink anyway. Tomorrow is my son's fifth birthday. My child starts to cry and my husband picks him up to soothe him but he wants mommy. In bad times he wants mommy. It seemed silly now that we argued whether to bring our child to the appointment or not. But considering what is happening, he is taking it rather well.
I don't remember getting dressed but somehow we end up in another exam room. Undress from the waist down again please. Feet up. My OB knocks, enters the room, shakes my hand, and looks very sad. He explains that one in four pregnancies end this way. One in four. Most women don't even know they're pregnant, he says. It just looks like a missed period, then a very heavy one. I knew I was pregnant because we were trying. It took me four years to want another child and one year of trying to get this far. So on the first day of my missed period, I peed on two sticks two weeks apart. I even took pictures of the sticks. Silly, I know. I still have those pictures on my phone. I also took a picture of my 5 year old pretending to read my "I'm Pregnant" book in bed and planned to share my news that way to close friends.
My OB counsels me that I have the choice to let it "pass on its own" or have a D&C. Dilation and curettage. Due to my age he suggests the latter but it is still up to me. The good news is that we can try again. My husband leaps at the suggestion: "How soon?" Absurdly again I want to scream, and cry, and say "NO MORE, I AM DONE." I refrain. I breathe in and out and let them discuss. I have to wait for a normal period to occur before trying to conceive. A brief argument ensues over the date and time of the surgery (there is a waiting list of some sort - how many women got this bad news here, today in this office?!) I am in health care, and calling in sick means my boss would have to move some mountains to get me a few days off. I don't remember how we got home. Then the phone calls begin: to his parents, to my mother, to my aunt. Somehow it's harder to explain again to our parents what happened. My husband reached his dad, and their conversation was brief. They hung up before I could talk to him on the phone too, so I called him back. He didn't expect me to call again but he answered and he sounded like he was crying. For me this was hard. Ironically my mom (a nurse) took the news better than I thought. She wanted to know how much pain I was in (just emotional pain for now) and when my procedure would be done. Talking to my aunt in New York was harder: she helped raise me. She cried. I cried. She said she will handle telling everyone else what happened (my pregnancy news was leaked to extensive family in another continent).
I've told a select few of my closest friends my early pregnancy news so now I have to tell them one by one the bad news. I chicken out and use texts and messages instead of calling. My friend Amanda immediately calls me on the phone and I try not to cry as she consoles me. I have a group of friends reachable by Facebook and after I told them, the messages and texts pour in: women who've had the same experience, and some with multiple miscarriages. They all tell me I will be okay, and to take it one day at a time. I am floored by the number of friends who've gone through this heartbreak. One of my best friends in high school confess she had the same thing and didn't even tell her own mom for fear of being judged or lectured. My boss is sympathetic and offers me additional days off; he has been through this before, it seems, with an OD colleague from a few years back. I cried myself to sleep for several days. My husband was grieving in his own way too. We were basically zombies that still had to wake up, go to work, take care of our child, and move as if life was still happening and the world was still spinning.
My surgery had been scheduled for a Wednesday but I started bleeding and cramping two days prior while still at work. I hid in the employee bathroom and cried. It was really happening. I had to put on a brave face as that day my other boss was visiting for a team meeting/photo and corporate lunch. I lasted til 4:00 pm and had to go home early to monitor my pain/need to go to the ER. Surgery day came and I was on fasting/starvation due to standard protocol. Fourteen hours of no liquids or solids so I was weak by the time my 4:00 pm surgery. My nurses, anesthesiologist, and the surgeon asked what my profession was, since I was very calm about everything and used clinical terms that lay people normally don't. The irony almost made me laugh. My anesthesiologist wanted my opinion on his multifocal contacts. I didn't want to tell him that he was overcorrected in one eye versus the other. Anyway, surgery went well and I woke up thinking absurdly: I really really want a cheeseburger. My heart ached and I wanted to eat my feelings. I felt well enough to walk to dinner with my boys. This part was the after-after.
At night, we have a bedtime ritual. My boys watch a video montage on Youtube set to their favorite Sesame Street song ( Video Montage made by my friends Irene and Todd for my boys' birthdays February 1st and 5th). After a bedtime book or two we say goodnight to each other. My firstborn is #1 and we had referred to the new addition as #2. "Goodnight number one, goodnight number two!" my five year old said, patting my tummy. His dad explained that number two is in heaven, and we can say goodnight but wave in the air. We all waved in the air and said "Goodnight, number two."
It's only been 17 days since my whole world turned upside down. I'm taking it one day at a time. In my heart of hearts I still think of myself as a "mom of two." And for a while I was dreaming happily of a "table for four." Maybe it will happen in time. I'm just grateful for my family and friends who were there for me the whole time, even across different cities, states, and continents. I love you all.
