I had my third ultrasound on Friday. My body was already telling me what to expect, but I didn’t want to listen. No, does anyone really want to know the awful truth? In the movies, the heroine comes out of the bathroom with a positive pregnancy test, and glows as her stomach stretches to make room for the life growing inside of her. Its always a historical drama when a woman wakes up covered in blood. But my breasts were no longer as tender as they used to be. And yes, I saw a little bit of pinkish discharge. I just didn’t feel “pregnant” anymore. But I tried to be optimistic. I tried praying, even though I’m not religious. But it didn’t help. It didn’t change the outcome that I knew would come from the moment I met with the doctor three weeks ago.
There had been no progression. Not only that, it was still 7mm.
You know, if we hadn’t had that ultrasound 10-days before, it would have been a harder choice. If we saw ANY growth at all…we would have waited for a miracle. Or at least a “natural” miscarriage. But nothing. Nothing for ten days. I cried in the exam room. And I cried as my husband drove me to my parents house. And I cried as I drank a bottle of wine.
I cried at 2am when I woke up with a hangover, hungry. My husband and I drove to a 24-hour diner in Seattle and gorged on butter laden hash-browns and jalapeno heavy breakfast burritos. It was a memorable night, and I ended up falling in love with my husband more. It was one of those moments of sadness that we knew would happen the day we said our vows. I knew then, however, that we are in this together.
The next day at 1:30 I took the misoprostol. Inserting those four pills was like an act of deliberation. It felt so wrong to be “undoing” something that I wanted so very badly. I had to remind myself that I am lucky. That there is no baby at all. Just a jumbled mess of tissue. There are women out there who have suffered much, much worse. And my heart truly goes out to them. I took a shower and dressed myself in the most comfortable clothes I could, and attached the WORLDS largest pad into my underwear. I was ready.
The camps started slowly a few hours later. Much too slowly in fact. I was terrified it wasn’t going to work, and I would be stuck getting a D&C, which I wanted to avoid at all cost. Finally I saw a little spotting. “Good” I thought to myself, “its working.” I thought I would be okay with the ibuprofen. And I was. Until around 10pm.
10pm…I could feel the blood pour out of me. Sitting on the toilet was the only real relief, as it allowed the tissue to wash out of me. But it was lonely in the hollow quiet of the bathroom, and I would soon be curled up on the couch with my husband and a heating pad. {Oh heating pad… I should write an ode to you.} Curled up was the only position I could take, as I had to walk hunched over to ease the contractions. I took that Vicodin I thought I wouldn’t need, and slowly I drifted off to sleep watching the Weekly Update on SNL.
I woke up once in the middle of the night, and went to the bathroom. There the final, largest piece of tissue, was expelled. And instantly, the wave of contractions was over. It was a wash of relief over my body. I was giggly with happiness, I felt so good…and I felt so empty. Something was missing. Even now as I write this, a full 24 hours later, I still have cramps…and that awful empty feeling — its still here.
Now we are back at square one, but this time with broken hearts. We will try again soon, and this time, we wont call her Maybe…she will be Definitely.
A Portrait of a Pregnancy 