I went back to the OBGYN yesterday for another follow up appointment, and also to demand kindly request a low hormone, low impact birth control. A few things kept me very entertained in the waiting room.

First of all, there were two girls, 19 or 20, who were dressed like the Gynie’s office was a night club. Heavy make up, straightened hair, short and slinky dresses.

It was 9:15 in the morning!!! I could not, for life of me, figure it out. Had they not gone home from the (Wednesday) night before? Were they appearing in a commercial for a local hot spot after the appointment? Were they trying to provide “easy access?”

The second thing was an adorable toddler who spent 10 minutes bringing the waiting room toys from one end of the room to my lap, one at a time. She got offended if I tried to give them back to her, or set them down, and smiled flirtatiously when I gushed my thanks. Too cute.

AND, I managed to play with her without once wanting to cry!! GO ME! Am an emotional wound healing Super Star! Give me presents! Or a martini! WOOT! (On a side note, what the John Glenn does “woot” mean?)

As for the appointment itself, I’m finally no longer getting positive pregnancy tests….I may have raised my fist in the air and exclaimed “Thank God!” at this, and the nurse may have then backed out of the door slowly, clutching my chart to her chest as a shield.

But then later, she gave me three free Nuva Rings when the doctor went back in his office.

My criteria for birth control was that it be low hormone, and unlikely to affect future planned conceptions. Also, idiot proof, since I cannot be trusted to take a pill at the same time every day (hell, I can’t even be trusted to turn off the stove after dinner).

(Hi! Let me overshare with you! Pull up a cushion and pour yourself some coffee.)

Technorati Tags: Pregnancy, Miscarriage

“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

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