“Are you still having bleeding?” He asks. I nod my head…my throat is, once again, too tight to speak. I feel like an idiot. It’s medicine. Science. There’s no room for emotion in science.

“Better or worse than yesterday?”

“Worse,” I whisper, desperately looking to the ceiling, praying that the tears won’t spill over. Why do I care now? Why with a doctor, who deals with this, and worse, on a daily basis. I guess hormones and emotion know no logic.

“Any pain?” Again, I nod, too scared to speak. The nurse gives me a sympathetic smile. I’d rather she pick her nose, check her iPod, anything than show me kindness right now.

He asks her to go out and get the blood test results, even though I know them by heart. 80 on Monday. 100 on Thursday. Not enough of a raise. Rh negative - my body will build a resistance to any potential (and probable) future Rh positive fetuses. But I don’t say anything, because maybe, if I don’t, the results will be different. Maybe the numbers will have doubled, like they should have. Maybe I can change the inevitable by keeping quiet. Maybe if I speak up, I’ll show too much doubt and God won’t reward my strong faith with an impossible miracle. And besides, they’ll figure it out soon enough.

I scoot down on the table, for better ultrasound access. He squints at the monitor, then reaches to shut off the lights. He moves the wand around, and I gasp at how much it hurts. “I’m sorry,” he says. He asks if I could provide a urine sample. I laugh. After 10 days of having to pee nonstop, this must be the first time I don’t have to use the bathroom. But I try anyway.

After providing the sample, I go to his office. He studies the ultrasound images, and compares them to the ones from a week ago. “Most likely, you miscarried.” He says. I try to think of a way to find hope in the word “maybe,” but I can’t. I know better. My body has been telling me from the get go that something is wrong. He continues: “There’s nothing in your uterus. If the urine test is negative, we’ll give you an Rh shot and we’re done.”

The nurse comes back in with my results. “It still says positive,” she says. He nods his head. “We’re not out of the woods for a tubal pregnancy,” he says, “Can you get your blood drawn today?”

So JS and I head out for the lab. We wait an hour - there are only 2 techs. I offer my already bruised vein, not even bothering to pray for a miracle. I just want it to be over. Done. Whatever is inside of me, I want it out. I suddenly feel a connection with women who wait anxiously in abortion clinics. They must feel the exact same way that I do right now. They just want their bodies back.

We get lunch after. I’m not very hungry, but I’m extremely light headed, so I eat what I can. We come home and, after reading up on mortality rates for tubal pregnancies, I take a nap. While I’m sleeping, JS brings in some flowers that John sent me. They’re lovely: bright and huge and yellow. I have the best friend in the universe.

And now I wait again. My eyes are puffy and sore from crying. I’ve become an online expert at deciphering Hcg numbers, and I determined that, based on size, I was probably close to 8 weeks along…further than what seems possible, but, hey, if the pregnancy was doomed from the start, then I never would have thought to take a home test anyway.

I hope and I pray that it’s a “simple” miscarriage. I don’t want to keep feeling afraid every time I go to the bathroom. I want to move on. I want to get past this and, eventually, begin thinking about what’s next. I want my hormones to subside so I don’t burst into sobs on an elevator when a woman comes on with a stroller and a toddler.

JS has, as expected, been amazing throughout. He’s held my hand, stroked my head, sat with me in the doctor’s office, made jokes, been somber, anything and everything I could have ever needed and if I say anything else, then I’m going to dissolve, once again, into tears. And I’m tired of crying (for now). John has read all of my emails from the beginning and been the best friend I could ask for. Even though this is such a shitty thing, I’m so very glad to have such amazing people in my life. I wish I could talk to my parents about this. I wish I could cry on the phone with my mom. That she’d listen. That she’d care. That she wouldn’t just think that I got what I deserve, living in sin and all.

Then again, I also wish that I had an MP3 of a rapid “whoosh whoosh whoosh” to post and play on repeat…so I guess that wishing isn’t going to accomplish much tonight.

Technorati Tags: Pregnancy, Miscarriage, Life, Faith, Relationships