Today is November 13th. It would have been my due date with our first Baby P.
I was a little reluctant to share our story because it's extremely personal, but I had to keep reminding myself that it might help one of you. To know you're not alone. We haven't even shared this story with our friends and family (except our parents). That is, until now.
My husband and I wanted to wait to have a baby. Whenever someone asked us about it, we would say we’re on the “5 year plan.” Our 5 year wedding anniversary was last September, and we decided we would start trying in December. No luck in December, none in January, but in February, on the day my extremely regular period was expected and then didn’t show up, I took a test. It was positive. I couldn’t believe it!
I had my first appointment 3 weeks later, where Baby P had a heart rate of 106. Our sonographer was so nice and we saw and heard the heartbeat and it was a miracle. However, Baby P was measuring a little small (about a week too small), so they wanted me to come back the next week. The hubs was going to be out of town on a business trip, so we decided to go ahead and tell our parents the good news so that my mom could come with me to my next appointment. They were elated, but apparently not that surprised. Note to self: the next time I have big news to share, send a text, don't plan an elaborate dinner because it's a dead giveaway.
The cake I made to announce our big news! It had pink and blue layers, obviously. :)
The next week, I went into the ultrasound room, got undressed for the transvaginal ultrasound (seriously, how uncomfortable are those things?), and my very stoic, unfriendly sonographer proceeded to try to find the heartbeat. I knew something was up when we couldn’t hear it. She tried the Doppler, and nothing. Then she tried some other method and could just barely hear it, even though we could see it on the screen. Baby P had a heart rate of 96, which was very low. We talked to one of our midwives, and she went through the scenarios with us and said it was basically a waiting game at this point and they would see me next week.
At the next appointment, I had the same stoic sonographer, who, in her unfeeling way, told the hubs and I that she couldn’t see or hear a heart beat this time, and that she was sorry. It was April Fool's Day, funnily enough. Baby P was 9 weeks old.
I didn’t cry. At least not right away. I think I had somewhat prepared myself for the worst. I went into the restroom and got dressed, then we walked over to the midwife’s waiting area, where we were supposed to wait and talk to her about the next steps. We sat down in the tiny room, where some sort of technician was working on some equipment nearby, and that’s when I broke down. My thoughts were spiraling out of control. Why me? Why us? Did I do something wrong? I just knew I was drinking too much coffee. Should I have taken a different vitamin? Was I too active?
But what was worse than knowing that Baby P was no longer with us, was still feeling pregnant. I was nauseous all the time, but especially if I didn’t eat every couple hours. I was exhausted. I still didn’t want to eat cereal (an aversion that lasted up until a couple months afterward). It was like a knife to the chest… all those symptoms still presenting themselves, yet, PSYCH, you’re not actually pregnant anymore.
Let’s just gloss over what happened next, shall we? I went to the hospital the next day, had a D&C, and came home feeling fine. The anxiety about it far outweighed the recovery.
The next week was an emotional rollercoaster ride. I would feel fine and kind of forget about it for a couple hours, then it would hit me like a ton of bricks and I would be on the verge of tears. I was sad. It was all I could think about. I didn’t know how I would ever get over it.
Truth is, I don’t know if it’s possible to ever truly “get over” a miscarriage. I think the pain from that time will stay with me forever. But you do move on. Each week was easier, and about 3 weeks later, I was feeling like my normal self again. As sad as it was, I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t the end of our journey. We would have a baby, I just knew it.
Now I'm 26 weeks pregnant with Baby P 2.0, who always has a healthy heart rate of 145+, and kicks me like crazy. I won't mention how much weight I've gained or the fact that I walk like a seal. I felt terrible up until 17 weeks, and now I'm dealing with back pain, restless feet every night (seriously, restless legs/feet syndrome is no joke), and I miss my morning coffee like crazy. But whenever I start to think about all these symptoms I'm encountering, I remind myself that I'm lucky. Extremely lucky to be carrying a healthy baby who I will get to see in 3 short months! Not everyone is as lucky as we are, and I don't take it for granted a single second.
Oh, and I know that I'm a few weeks behind on my weekly update pics, but I've taken them - just haven't gotten around to editing them yet! I will get to that soon. In other news, our ongoing, never-ending basement renovation should *hopefully* be finished this week. Yes, I believe I've said that before, but I mean it this time! You know what that means, don't you? NURSERY TIME! I can't WAIT to share what I have up my sleeve! The theme will likely KILL you with cuteness. At least it does me. :)