This might be the hardest thing I’ve ever written, and I’ve written about a lot of very hard things.

A week and a half ago, I got a positive home pregnancy test. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t expected. JS and I had a hard time figuring the timing out, and we’d been using protection…nothing seemed to add up, but, such is life, right? Of course, I then peed on about 15 more sticks, just to be sure. All of them turned positive within seconds. I had some light spotting, but all of my research and a phone call to my doctor lead me to believe that this was normal. OK.

So I started to get excited. Unplanned doesn’t mean unwanted. JS and I began to think about plans, and how we’d prepare. He’d come back from a walk and greet me with a belly rub and a “how’re my girls?” We both wanted a girl, but would’ve taken anything, of course. I started popping prenatals right away and cut out the wine and coffee. JS and I talked about renting a house with another bedroom. We talked about marriage. He held pretend conversations with a kid over dinner. “Just practicing,” he said, “for when Moonbeam wants to ride across country on her boyfriend’s Harley.”

Before the pee had even dried on the tests, I started feeling pregnant. My boobs were ridiculously sore. I had to pee about a gazillion times an hour, day or night. I gagged on smells, and the thought of some foods made me put my head between my knees.

I made an appointment with an OBGYN. It was too soon, of course, to see anything on the ultrasound, so he sent me for the blood tests. I began to get a sense of foreboding. Something didn’t feel right. The spotting hadn’t let up, it may have even gotten a little worse. But I had no cramps, and the first blood test said “pregnant!” So, OK. I tried to relax and think positive, happy thoughts.

I went in for the second blood test on Thursday. Friday, my friend and I headed up for the Stagecoach festival. I would have rather stayed home, but I couldn’t. The tickets cost me an arm and a leg, my friend’s birthday was over the weekend, and I knew I’d have to tell her something if I canceled, and I didn’t want to say anything until that 13 week marker. So I went.

The doctor’s office called me while waiting in line to get in Friday night. My second blood test showed that the hcg had risen, but not by a lot. They wanted me to get more blood drawn. Also, the nurse said, since I’m Rh negative, if I miscarried, I’d have to get a shot. I hung up the phone, the word “miscarry” ringing in my ears. I said something about thyroid results to my friend, and sat back down on my lawn chair. I pulled my hat down low over my sunglasses to hide the tears. I swallowed repeatedly to repress sobs. I texted JS and John. I knew the pregnancy was over, and it broke my heart. For just over a week, thoughts of fat, dimpled thighs, and sweet smelling neck skin had invaded my thoughts. It had become all I really wanted, even though I didn’t know I wanted it until it happened.

From there, everything went down hill. I stayed at the festival, knowing there was nothing for me to do. I tried to have fun and not to be a downer for my friend. But every time the music stopped, I found that those sneaky tears had found their way down my cheeks again. I started bargaining with God, “Just let everything be OK,” I begged silently. “I’ll do anything. Just let this baby be OK.”

Saturday, the spotting was lighter, but I began getting cramps. I tried to visualize the little band of cells snuggling in deeper, but I knew better. They hurt so badly that I didn’t even stand up for Rascal Flatts, and I love me my Rascal Flatts.

It happened on Sunday. When I woke up to pee at 5AM, there was a lot of blood. And try as I might, I couldn’t think of anyway to turn that into a positive sign. So I went back to bed, even though I couldn’t sleep. I called JS from the parking lot, while my friend and I hung out until the concert gates opened, and started crying as soon as I heard his voice. I just wanted to be home with him, not stuck in the desert listening to country music with a bunch of wannabe rednecks.

As soon as we set up our blankets and chairs under the shade, I went off to the bathroom. It’s a moment that’ll stay with me for the rest of my life. The clot was like nothing I’d ever seen. It was pink and white, maybe ¾ of an inch long. I thought I could see what would have turned into its umbilical cord, under better circumstances.

It was so very, very small.

I went back to my seat, and rummaged in my bag for some money to buy a Gatorade. I wandered as far from the stage as I could, and called JS. I wasn’t sure what to say, I just wanted to be as close to him as I could. We hung up and I called my doctor’s office; luckily, my OB was on call, and he called back within minutes. I described what had happened, and he concurred with my assessment of miscarriage, saying he wasn’t surprised. He said to come in on Monday. I called JS who left immediately to come and get me.

I explained to my friend what was going on. She tried to be supportive, but it’s just not possible to say something that’s going to help. I don’t want to hear that “it’s all for the best,” or that “everything happens for a reason.” I want someone to scream “FUCK” with me at the top of their lungs because, well, FUCK!!! Fuck fuck fuck FUCK!

I know I’m not the only person to go through this. I know it’s common. I know that our pregnancy wasn’t planned. But I wanted it. I wanted the baby. The child. I wanted it in my arms. I wanted the sleepless nights, the rocking to sleep, the giggles and the crying. I want to have a family with JS, and even though we seemed to going at it from an unconventional angle, it suited us. Why not start a family in a unique, backwards way? We aren’t the most conventional couple ever, but we love each other as much as the next. How awesome to share our love with someone we made!

So now I’m waiting to go back for another ultrasound. Instead of looking for a heartbeat, we’ll be looking to see if I managed to pass all of the “contents of conception” or if I need medical assistance to do so. I’ll get my Rh shot, so that the next time I get pregnant my body won’t attack the baby (again). Then I’ll come home, and try to get on with life. Try not to think about what could have been.

Technorati Tags: Pregnancy, Miscarriage, Life