I was keeping a wonderful secret from you for a while. I was pregnant again, and in a few more days there would have been a sonogram at 8.5 weeks, and we would have found a lovely, healthy fetus with a strong heartbeat and that’s when I was going to tell you. Except it didn’t go that way, again.
I had another miscarriage on Thursday, at 7.5 weeks pregnant. That makes three miscarriages in ten months, for those of you playing along at home. (Two spontaneous abortions and one chemical pregnancy, for those of you playing with the Advanced Medical Lingo board.) Spotting started Wednesday afternoon, got a bit heavier on Thursday morning, and Thursday afternoon found Billy and me at the doctor’s office, getting that much-anticipated sonogram a week early and finding no heartbeat.
My baby died. Another baby dead.
Since Thursday, the bleeding has picked up pace. No great, crushing contraction followed by an expulsion like the first miscarriage. No sad, pedestrian period like the second one, at just four weeks pregnant. It’s like my body was waiting for that dead-still sonogram before it let go. The spotting to hint at what was to come, and only now, days later, is it giving that baby over. I passed what must have been the sac, or a large part of it, this evening and couldn’t help but touch it. It was translucent and rubbery and surprisingly strong. Like the membrane in a chicken’s egg but much stronger. The baby would have grown in there. Strange to hold it, touch it. I thought I should bury it, but I ended up dropping it into the toilet and flushing it away. There was no identifiable tissue with it. I looked. Is this too much information? Probably. I’m beyond caring. I have to write this. Look away, if you need to.
I’m fucking angry. And sad as hell. We’ve already done a shitload of tests that all came back normal. On Thursday they drew six more vials of blood to test for more obscure stuff. The OB says it’s time to see a specialist, but I’m not sure how much farther we want to take this thing. I think I might want to get off the ride. Enough loss, you know? Enough blood. Enough with the dead babies. We’re taking the summer off. I know that much. If August ends and I feel up to it, then we’ll see what the Reproductive Endocrinologist has to say, beyond, “We have no idea why this is happening.”
August is far away, for now. Right now I’m going to mourn this baby. And then I’m going to work in the garden and write my ass off and hang out with Billy and Thumper, and love my two guys, our little family of three, as hard as I can. I’m going to try to let that be enough.