where do I even start?

The last couple of days have been a whirlwind of revelations and sadness. If you're tired of hearing about my miscarriages and related troubles, you probably want to move on. I promise the posts for the rest of the month will turn to happier subjects.

On Tuesday, I got a positive pregnancy test. It was so faint that we really thought we were just seeing things, so we didn't tell anyone and quietly hoped. I did call my OB and got an appointment to come in for bloodwork the next day.

On Wednesday, I got more positive pregnancy tests, this time much more obvious. I had my blood drawn to test my HCG levels, then headed up to my first visit with maternal/fetal medicine. Dr. K was pretty awesome; she actually has the same OB/GYN as me, which was great. We went over everything my test results showed, which was more than I had originally thought.

I knew that I had one genetic marker for Factor V Leiden, a disorder that can cause blood clots. Dr. K was pretty sure this was why G only weighed 6.3 ounces at 38 weeks and why I got pre-eclampsia with him. She was amazed that I didn't get pre-e earlier. :( Another reason I'm so so thankful for my healthy toddler!

However, I discovered that I have two markers for MTHFR. I didn't hear which kind, but she said it was not the "worst type" but the "medium." Since MTHFR blocks the absorption of folic acid, this might have been what caused baby #2's base of the brain problems. We'll never know for sure, but there you go. I also have two markers for PAI 4G/4G, which she said wasn't a big deal except when combined with other factors.

So, awesome, right?

Anyway, we formed a game plan for my next successful pregnancy:

• 4000 mcg extra folic acid
• 40 ml of Lovenox in a daily injection
• 500 mg extra calcium (once I start Lovenox)
• 1 daily baby aspirin during pregnancy (and for the rest of my life)
• Lovenox is started as soon as we get a heartbeat at 6-7 weeks. I would get bloodwork and an ultrasound done every month to check the baby and my red blood cell counts. At 32 weeks, the ultrasounds become bi-weekly.
• Switch to Heparin before delivery so I could have an epidural if wanted or stay awake during a c-section.
• Induction around 38 weeks. I would then switch over to blood thinner in the form of pills for the next 6 weeks.

Whew! A mouthful, right? But it's worth it, if it'll get us another baby... Wednesday was also baby #2's due date. I did break down in Dr K's office because there was a lot of talk about baby #2. Also, the office was the same one where we had our extensive ultrasound to diagnose baby #2's miscarriage. Stepping into that waiting room literally took my breath away (we had no idea), and I'm pretty sure the hubs cursed.

On Thursday, I had another positive pregnancy test, but it was fainter. I called my OB for my test results. The nurse called back to say that my blood HCG test had came back negative. In fact, my HCG was only 3. Of course, I was shocked. I thought maybe my tests were too faint and they weren't getting darker, but I thought maybe the baby was just a late implanter. Not so.

Later that day, I started having horrible backache and spotting.

Today, I'm still spotting. I took one pregnancy test this morning which was negative. I'm guessing I'll get my period eventually... or the miscarriage... or whatever you call it when it's a chemical pregnancy (which, by the way, is a nasty term for a very early miscarriage). Should I call it baby #4? I don't even know. Maybe my body just wasn't ready to be pregnant again two months after my last miscarriage? I don't know that either. All I know is that I'm tired of being on the shit side of life's percentages of chance. I want something to go right for once. I need it to go right.

Anyway, I'm gonna take a break from talking about all of this. We'll start trying again immediately, but of course it'll be about a month before we know if we're successful. All of this waiting definitely doesn't help.

on the eve of your due date

Dear baby #2,

Your due date is tomorrow. August 15th.

Almost forty weeks ago, your mama was beginning the cycle that would conceive you, and your daddy and I were so so happy to finally be trying for a second child. It took two months of trying and I remember how thrilled I was to see those two pink lines. You were my 11/11/11 wish. A little girl I didn't know asked me if I had a baby in my tummy two days before I tested positive with you, and I almost said, "Yes!" You were the baby we told friends and family about on my 30th birthday party and the timing was so perfect to surprise everyone. You were the perfect piece to finish our family.

On Valentine's Day, I threw up all over myself on the way to tutor a second grader. I was almost 14 weeks pregnant with you. That evening, your older brother split open his eyelid on our coffee table and we went the next four hours in the emergency room. I sat in the lobby, rubbing my belly, touching you to reassure myself because I was so scared about G. I didn't know at that moment you were likely already gone from me. The next day, we went in for a routine check-up, expecting to hear your heartbeat for the first time. We heard nothing.

It's only gotten worse since then, second-baby. Your mama is trying, she's trying so hard. But we lost your brother-sister in June, and I feel like this nightmare will never end. I'm tired of charting my basal temperatures and trying to have more babies. I'm tired of wondering how many more I'll have to lose before we either get our take-home baby or give up in despair. I'm tired of peeing on tests to see if they're positive or negative, or trying to figure out if every twinge in my stomach is good or bad.

On your due date, on Wednesday, we have a doctor's appointment with a specialist who will try to help us from losing more babies. I might have to have daily or twice daily shots in my stomach, which is kinda ironic considering my belly is the source of all my hope and all my sadness. I hope I can keep from crying. I hope I can keep from screaming. Because all I really want is to have you back inside me, tucked safely under my ribs. Or better yet, since your due date is tomorrow, to have you alive and well in my arms.

More than anything, I wish you were snuggled against my chest right now, and I would be typing about happier things. Maybe I would be editing pictures from your birth day. Maybe I would be dozing along with you. Maybe I would be still trying to find the breastfeeding angle that you liked best, tucking my nipple down and against your lips so you could feed for the fifth time today. I know that these wants are hopeless and impossible, but I want them nonetheless. I don't want you to feel bad about how much I still grieve for you. I know you're in such a happy place right now, and I know I'll get there eventually, but it's hard to see that perspective right now.

I hope one day that you'll forgive me for not fighting harder to hold you in my arms when you were born. You came into the world in such an awful way. I should have been awake to see you. I should have birthed you at home. My doctor did suggest at the last moment, right before they hooked up my IV, if I wanted her to get me into labor and delivery; I could have been induced and could have seen you. I could have held you. I could have taken you home with me and buried you. But I didn't. Mommy was so scared. I didn't think I could handle being in the same ward as other moms giving birth to healthy babies. I didn't think I could go through a painful miscarriage at home at 14 weeks along, so I did the D&C instead. I'm sorry I never found out if you were a boy or a girl. Or what really happened to you.

I'm sorry I wasn't stronger for you.

Second-baby, can you please give baby #3 a giant hug for me? I know you had to become an older sibling so quickly to another angel baby. But sister-brother really needs you. Mommy hasn't been able to properly grieve for them, not like I have you. I guess I'm still too stuck on missing and wanting you to attach myself to other babies right now. Please tell your sister-brother that Mommy loves them and she wanted them badly, even if maybe she hasn't talked about it much. We had such a short time together, only seven weeks, and mommy wanted so much longer.

You would be so proud of your older brother, second child of mine. He has done so well when mommy was sad and couldn't play, or when I wouldn't let him run around very much for fear he would get hurt. I feel like he understands that when I say, "Be careful please," what I really mean is "I miss your siblings."

I can't promise you to do better than I am. But I can at least promise to keep doing as well as I am. I can promise to eventually get rid of the bitterness I feel toward others and brush aside my feelings of being ignored. Not everyone understands the pain of loss, and the fact that it never goes away. I want to be more forgiving, but it's difficult to do that right now.

I miss you, child of mine. I miss you terribly. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Happy Birthday.

~Mama

getting some answers

Three weeks after my miscarriage, I went in for recurrent loss testing. Some women's OBs have them wait for three miscarriages before doing testing, but my OB was adamant that we go ahead. They drew eleven vials of blood which left me lightheaded with a sore arm. They said it'd take 10-14 days to hear the results.

I got a call this morning from my OB's nurse. I have one copy of the gene that causes Factor V Leiden, a disorder that causes blood clots.

This is what I know so far:

FVL may have caused my two miscarriages. It's a strong possibilities; however, we didn't test baby #2 and #3, so we have no clear idea of what causes their deaths. I only have one copy of the gene versus getting it from both parents, but the risk is still high for complications in pregnancy if not treated properly.

FVL may have caused my pre-eclampsia. While I did carry G to full term without problems, I developed pre-eclampsia at 38 weeks and had to be quickly induced.

Since I only have one copy of the gene, only one of my parents is a carrier. We're guessing my mom at this point, since it's less common in Hispanics. However, we won't know until they get tested themselves.

FVL is treatable with blood thinners such as baby aspirin and daily Lovenox shots while you're pregnant. It's scary because blood clots can happen at any time during the pregnancy, so the baby isn't safe until you finally deliver. This is what scares me the most, even more so than the fact that this has life-long consequences for me.

FVL can cause blood clots which break off and travel to the heart or lungs. I'll have to learn how to handle this long-term, and I'm sure it involves lots of water and exercise throughout my life.

I'm glad that we went through all of this testing so we could get some answers. And I'm so so happy that there's treatment for FVL. However, I'm sad when thinking about the babies we lost. If I'd known earlier, I could have saved them.

I find it appropriate that my appointment with the specialist will be on August 15th. We'll learn how to save our future babies on the due date of baby #2, which I lost at 14 weeks.

this is why I can't watch Disney movies right now

This afternoon, we put on Finding Nemo for G to watch as he's fighting off this week's sickness. The poor kid's toes are still peeling from the remnants of hand, foot, mouth disease and now he's been running a fever for three days. G formed a rash on his neck just before the fever started, and he's showing signs of a sore throat, so I hope it's just a cold. If the fever hasn't gone away by middle of the week, I guess we'll have to take him in. Boy, he'll love that torture. Especially because they'll probably shove a strep test down his throat.

I stepped out of the room during the beginning of the movie. I couldn't stand watching Marlin lose both his wife (mate? partner? girl?) and all of his children except one. Because Nemo lost his mother and siblings, he'll always be an only child. Marlin suffers from post traumatic anxiety and can't let Nemo out of his sight without freaking out that his son will get hurt.

Sound familiar? I saw a lot of myself in Marlin. After my first miscarriage, I went through a period of a couple of months when I thought something might happen to G at any moment. I would wake up and think he had died in this sleep. I couldn't spend more than ten minutes at a park because I would have images of him falling and getting hurt flash through my mind. I would see him fall down the stairs or break a leg while trying to go down a slide.

It didn't help that he had already gotten hurt going down a slide (with me). It also didn't help that we had a trip to the emergency room less than 24 hours before we found out that baby #2 had died because G had busted his eyelid open on the coffee table. Being a toddler, he was a ticking time bomb for bruises, cuts, and trips to the ER. I couldn't take it.

Marlin in Finding Nemo can't bear to see his only son go off on his own. He can't let him play like the other kids because his son was born with a deformed fin and also because Marlin himself is always afraid Nemo will get hurt. Only once he sees how strong and resilient Nemo actually is does he finally begin to relax. Once Marlin realizes his son isn't going to randomly die on him, he can put his family's tragic deaths behind him and move on.

Almost exactly two months after we found out about my first miscarriage, we were in Alabama visiting my parents. We went to a park and G wanted to go down a slide. My heart was pounding but I let him do it by himself. Not only is it so much safer for him to go down the slide by himself to begin with - I found myself relaxing the more he did it without getting injured. Those knots inside of me loosened and began to let go.

We went to more and more parks after that, and I encouraged him to go down slides. The more slides he went down, loving every moment, the more I relaxed. A little over a month after this moment, I began to even stay on the ground while he explored by himself, only helping when he asked or walked down stairs without a rail. And it felt awesome.

Then, of course, miscarriage #2 happened.

I know it's only been a week since the actual miscarriage started, though we found out two and a half weeks ago. My hormones took a huge dip a couple of days ago, which took a toil on me emotionally, but otherwise I've managed to stay upbeat. My post postpartum anxiety that happened after baby #2 hasn't happened after baby #3. At least, not yet. I know more about what to look for and avoid, and I'm trying my best to stay hopeful.

However, I do wonder if my kiddo will stay an only child like Nemo. Will I have to tell him, when he's older, about all those babies I tried to have and lost? About the siblings that might have been? I know lots of only children who were perfectly happy growing up that way, so I try not to assume that he'll be lonely. But my child won't have a ton of cousins running around with him like I did. He'll always be the oldest by at least a couple of years, and I yearn to give him a life-long playmate to share his ups and downs.

Maybe those losses will be something I can share with my two kids when they ask about all of those extra ultrasound photos we kept or the picture of the lion with angel wings on the wall. Eventually, we'll have to say enough is enough and give up on trying to have a second baby. But not right now.

the story of miscarriage

This post has graphic descriptions of miscarriage. Read at your own discretion. ~Alicia


I started bleeding for my second miscarriage on the four month anniversary of the D&C for my first. I don't know what to say about my body except that it has timing.

I knew it was likely coming. On Saturday, I started spotting brown discharge. By the end of that day, we had decided to call my OB's office and cancel the D&C scheduled for early Monday morning in the hopes that I would miscarry on my own. Late Sunday morning, I wiped and saw small red streaks mixed in with the brown. My cramps were becoming more like cramps than a persistent aching.

By the end of that day, I asked my mom to come up. I hated asking her to drive the two and a half hours to Nashville from Alabama, especially because she had already been traveling that weekend. But when you need your mama, you do your best to kick your pride and guilt to the curb.

My mama arrived at 6:40pm. At 7:00pm, as I hugged G goodnight, I felt a sudden wetness between my legs. I rushed upstairs to the bathroom and sat on the toilet in time to pass a large clot and a few gushes of bright red blood. The miscarriage was definitely happening.

I called my OB's office and spoke with the on-call doc from the group (who happened to be the one who had delivered G!). I told her what was happening and just asked her to give my OB a message for in the morning. My OB had asked me to call before taking my Cytotec, a drug to induce cervical contractions that she wanted me to talk as soon as I had bright red bleeding. The on-call doc said my OB's nurse would give me a call in the morning to check on me, but I shouldn't hesitate to call back if I had any problems. I know I've said it before, but I love my doctor's office.

By the time I hung up the phone, the contractions and cramps were coming stronger. I put three Cytotec pills in my cheeks; I would take another three after those dissolved. My mom, Dave, and I all gathered upstairs to play a game and distract me. I sat with my heating pad, alternating it between my tummy and my lower back. Every 15 to 30 minutes, I would feel a little wetness and taking off quickly to the bathroom. Usually, I would pass a mass of clots and blood on the toilet before joining the others back in the room.

By 9:30 or 10pm, the contractions/cramps were strong. I was on hydromorphone and strong Ibuprofen pills, and I was still in a lot of pain. After a while, I couldn't concentrate on playing games anymore. My mom and the hubs distracted me by sitting with me on the floor and chatting for the next few hours. I spent most of it rocking back and forth, a motion that really helped, and heading to the bathroom to pass some more clots. Nothing during this time was as big as that first clot.

Around 11:30, I noticed that my cramps had lessened. I was worried about this because I didn't feel like I had passed anything that looked like the gestational sac - it all had looked like clotting. Mom and Dave argued about who would stay up with me; finally, my mom won and Dave headed off to try to sleep for a few hours.

At midnight, I decided that the cramps weren't strong enough to keep me from sleep. I sent Mom off to bed and crawled in next to a passed out hubs. I laid there until 1:30am, dozing, waking with cramps, dozing again, until the cramps/contractions became bad enough to send me to the bathroom again. I passed my biggest clot then, though it still didn't look like anything but blood.

I stayed up by myself until about 2:30 before deciding to try to sleep again.

My mom and the hubs got up when G did, around 6:30, and I stayed in bed a little later, closer to 7:30. At 7:55am, my OB's nurse called to check on me. I told her what happened overnight and answered her questions. They decided to have me come in for an ultrasound to see if I'd passed the fetal tissue. We went in for one at 10am, and the ultrasound technician found only blood clots. It looked as though I had passed all of the sac already. This was great news, and we were all very relieved.

This morning, I did end up passing a large piece of gray tissue that had a large clot attached to it. I'm guessing it was hidden on the ultrasound or something because it was definitely different than only blood. Today's bleeding, after that tissue, has been much more period like with almost no clotting, so I hope that means I'm in the clear now.

All in all, the experience was more positive than my D&C. I hated having to go to the hospital and spent a lot of time there by myself, whereas miscarrying naturally at home meant I could be surrounded by those who love me. I'm so happy my mom made it in time to help me out. The worst of the miscarriage only lasted a few hours, but having her as a distraction made things so much easier. It was also wonderful that the miscarriage happened right after G went to bed, so everyone was able to focus on helping me through it.

I did get emotional at the beginning, but overall, it was less traumatic than my D&C. I'll definitely choose a natural miscarriage over a D&C if I have to in the future, at least for early miscarriages. This miscarriage has sucked so hard because it was my second in a row, but this baby likely never even had a heartbeat. The fetus never looked very baby-like on the screen, likely from severe defects. And maybe after losing baby #2, I'm too jaded to feel like I could be pregnant with my take-home baby.

I'm still mourning baby #2, the one we lost at 14 weeks, so comprehending the loss of a second baby has been very difficult for me. How can someone hold that much grief? How can you mourn two babies when you never got past mourning one? When I think about baby #2, my heart clenches tight. When I think about baby #3, I just feel numb. Maybe I can't deal with even more loss so I'm shutting myself down to keep from feeling the pain. I can talk about this miscarriage easily with my husband and my mom, but when I try to talk to anyone else about it, my throat tightens, my jaw clenches, and tears rush into my eyes.

Does it get easier, the more losses you have? Or do you just utilize your well-worn coping skills?

We get to start trying for baby #4 after I have a regular period. I don't know if I'll be conceiving my second living child or my third angel baby.

goodbye, baby

Because of hand, foot, mouth going around in my house (but I'm immune, so that's great), and because of our last miscarriage at 14 weeks, my OB decided to bump up my first ultrasound to yesterday.

We left G with my mother-in-law while he napped, and both of us headed to my OB's office.

As I was checking in, my OB came over and gave me a big hug, happy to see us again. She crossed her fingers, hoping for good vibes before we went into the ultrasound.

A part of me thought, hey, I already had a miscarriage. A horrific later one. I paid my dues, right?

A part of me thought, it can't happen again, right?

A part of me knew it immediately, as soon as the technician slid the ultrasound wand inside. She measured the ovary that didn't ovulate. She went to the other side, sliding over the baby to my other ovary, a large black circle. I saw the baby for a brief moment. I took a deep breath, let it out. Took another one, let it out. Waited.

As soon as I saw the baby, I knew. There was no movement, no tiny heart pumping away. The technician measured and measured - I saw the baby measured right on target. She checked blood flow and saw none in the baby. She went into menus and out of menus, checked again and again, zoomed in and out. That terrible, awful screen came up, the one that measures the heartbeat, a line going across the screen left to right with flat lines.

Nothing.

So we've lost this baby. Honestly, I just feel numb inside. I don't think an early miscarriage would hurt as much as our 14 week one if it wasn't for the fact that it's now two in a row. I don't feel safe at all anymore. My OB wants to do testing to see if there's some condition that's causing these losses. I keep looking at G and thinking, were you just a fluke? A one-time miracle?

A part of me just wants to stop trying. But the more I'm denied my second take-home baby, the more I want it.

love letters to my children

I've been trying all day to write one letter to G and one letter to second-baby, the baby we lost in February. I will write a paragraph, then delete it. I will sit here, on Blogger, for 30 minutes, unable to write anything.

I have so much I could say to G, in these last hours of Mother's Day. But I feel as though this entire blog is a love letter to my first born, to the one who taught me how to be a mama, the one who keeps me going in the waves of loss-caused depression. I love him so much I feel as though my heart could burst. When I lost second-baby, some of my early thoughts to God were "If you take Grayson too, I'll never forgive you."

Because I couldn't. G is the reason I don't linger in bed, the reason I head downstairs instead of showering first, so I can see his little face grinning at me between the bars of his crib. His smile is my strength, and his laughter lessens the knot that constantly sits in my chest. When I hold his hand, I feel like those smooth, soft fingers are tugging me onward.

Whenever he wants comfort, I hold him close and think, yes, this is my purpose.

Losing second-baby meant that I lost a lot of myself. My bits of future and family, my confidence, my innocence that had never touched grief. I large part of me never wants to fill those holes because I'm too afraid of losing the only connection to second-baby that I still have. As soon as I move on, I have to admit that baby is dead. As soon as I move on, I no longer have that part of baby inside of me, the grief that weighs me down but constantly reminds me of the life that's gone.

And I never, ever want to forget that life. I don't want to forget the grief of losing baby. I'm the mama to two children, one downstairs asleep in his crib and one whose body was incinerated with countless other babies and body parts but whose soul lives on in my heart and in heaven, waiting for me to get there.

I want both of my children to only and always know love from me. No matter that I have to put on my parental hat whenever he gets into trouble. No matter if I could never hold him or her in my arms. I want there to be only love in my actions and in my life toward them. I want them to always, at least, know that I loved them.

I guess, in that, there is my love letter.

here we go again

 Oh lordy, this again?



Why yes, yes, it is.

My readership has grown like crazy in the past few months. The sick part of me realizes part of that is due to my miscarriage. Readers are drawn to that sort of thing. So when I saw that NaBloPoMo's May theme was going to be play, I kinda blanched and thought at first I'd ignore it.

I'm not really in the mood for playing at this point in my life. I'm still very much mourning the baby we lost. Sometimes I'll spend G's entire nap just looking at sites about non-genetic brain defects because I like torturing myself. My OB got a decent look at the baby and said the brain had developed out the back of the skull, and of course this points me toward encephalopathy, a defect that most resembles what I picture in my head. (I don't recommend looking that up because it isn't pretty.) Of course, most of the non-genetic brain defects are neural tubal related, which means they didn't close properly.

Which means, you know, why didn't I just take more folic acid or something? Really.

It does mean I'm taking extra folic acid now, as we're trying to get pregnant again. Another 400mg on top of my prenatal vitamin's 800mg. My OB never once mentioned taking more folic acid to prevent something like this happening again in future pregnancies. Her case was that the baby's brain defect wasn't preventable, but I'm not sure if she was just being nice about it - why screw with the emotions of someone who's obviously not all put back together yet? Maybe the defect wasn't neutral tube related and it's just all in my own head.

Speaking of all in my head. FertilityFriend.com, the site I'm using to chart my basal temps for ovulation (I highly recommend it, by the way), seems to think I've already ovulated due to my temps. Which is ridiculous because I've been sick, so of course my temps are whack right now. But if I went by the day the site thinks I'll get my next period, assuming I don't conceive this month, and plug that into a due date calculator, the due date for that baby would be the exact day of my D&C. February 17th, 2013.

How messed up is that? These are the things I think about on a daily basis. It's a wonder I'm not having to see a therapist for post traumatic anxiety right now.

...You know, NaBloPoMo's May theme of play may be just what I need this month. It's a healthy dose of fun coming at the beginning of my summer "not-quite-a-vacation" vacation.

If nothing else, you'll have a couple of guest posts from the hubs coming up. He's way funnier than I am.

I was put under 8 weeks ago

It's been 8 weeks since my D&C.

I'm not even sure what I say about it that I haven't already said. It's the first major loss I've ever experienced, and I find it so odd how life is in the aftermath of death. Robert Frost said it best: "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." Preach it, Frost. It goes on. And the weird thing is, it does.

At least, for everyone around me. I feel kinda stuck in one place, even though I'm going through the motions of continuing with life, even though I'm taking care of my toddler like normal, going to class, teaching my students, and everything in-between, even though I'm working on losing weight so I'm healthier for third-baby. Even though, I feel like I haven't moved on yet. Maybe everyone else has. People definitely don't willingly bring it up anymore, almost as though they're relieved time has passed enough that maybe it is just the past now.

I go running by myself every other day just so I have time to think about it. And I need that, that calm space to let second-baby flow into my thoughts. It's our moment together that I yearn for. It's all that I feel I have left to offer my angel-baby.

I start my second post-miscarriage period any day now. After that, we start trying to get pregnant again. I'm rather nervous about it, mostly because I don't know how long it will take. My luteal phase (the phase of your cycle post ovulation) was very short last cycle, and I need it to be longer in order to get or stay pregnant.

Maybe getting pregnant again will help me reach that life goes on threshold. Or maybe my life will go on, but my heart never will.

those pictures of us

I'm wishing, at this moment, that I had taken more pics of me pregnant with baby #2.

My father-in-law got married to a lovely lady on Saturday. I'll post pics soon, especially of G because he was so stinkin' cute in his bow-tie and hat. My mother-in-law was the photographer and she asked me to be a bit of a second shooter for her. A few hours before the wedding, I cleaned off my SD card to make room.

As the photos, about 800 of them, were deleting off the card, I caught a glimpse of me pregnant with baby #2. I was 10 weeks at the time.

A huge wave of panic hit me. I thought I had copied all of the photos off my SD card, but I knew I had to check for my own sanity. I pulled up my folders, scanned through the past three months, and found only one from that photo session, the one I had used to blog that I was 10 weeks pregnant.

I had been meaning to take another maternity photo of myself, especially after I hit the second trimester mark a few weeks later. But I never did. There are no photos of me earlier along than that.

In a blink, I had deleted all of the rest of those photos from that 10 week session. There were a few others, a few of me with G as well. The lost of those hurt the worst. How stupid was that of me? Tears immediately glossed over my eyes. I didn't want to lose it, knowing I had to soon get ready for the wedding, but I could feel the grief welling up inside me all over again. One photo. That was all I had of me pregnant with baby #2. I already had an overwhelming sense of having nothing to remind me of second-baby, especially the lack of a body to bury. This was just one more heart-wrenching kick-me-while-I'm-down moment.

I took a deep breath and traveled further back in my stored photos. To 2011. To Christmas.

Here, here is a picture of me pregnant. The morning of Christmas Eve.

And here, another one. The evening of Christmas Day.

I was 6 1/2 weeks pregnant on Christmas and already showing, my belly bloated and swollen, my face already filling out.

And here, on my 30th birthday. Four weeks pregnant and I knew.

I knew so so early in that pregnancy that there was a new life inside me. I tested positive on a pee stick 8 days after ovulation, when I was only 3 weeks and 2 days pregnant.

There may be others, other photos that other people took of me when I was pregnant, and I cling to these photos because it's all that I have left. I have my hospital bracelet sitting on my jewelry box. I have the scar on my wrist that may never go away, one inch to the left of the IV scar from G's birth. I have second-baby's first ultrasound pictures, and a morbid part of me wishes we had images from the ultrasound that diagnosed the miscarriage. Second-baby had been so utterly beautiful to me at that moment.

I hate so badly that I deleted those photos of me 10 weeks pregnant, except for the one above. I wish I had taken some when I was 13 weeks pregnant, a week before all of that baby was lost to me. I promise myself that I'll do better with the next one, but that doesn't erase the heaviness that always lingers on my chest.

It's been almost 8 weeks since the day we found out about the miscarriage. Sometimes it feels like it never happened, especially as I sit here in my very not-pregnant body. Sometimes it grasps at my running heels as though it was yesterday.

a lesson on grief

If I was still pregnant, I would have been 20 weeks along today. We would have found out the gender of our baby yesterday.

The following blog post was originally written as a guest post for Annie over at Letters to Mo. I've edited it a bit before deciding to post it here. It's heavy stuff, but it suits my mood for today as I think back to that moment six weeks ago when we realized something was very, very wrong.

...

The day before my doctor's appointment, I threw up in the car on my way to work.

It was the morning of Valentine's Day. I had to drive back home with chunks of food hanging off my wrist and bile seeping into my pants. I thought, today can't get worst, right? I thought, damn pregnancy. I'm almost 14 weeks. The nausea should take the hint already. I thought, I gotta call the school and tell them I won't make it. Awesome.

Later, I'd regret most of those thoughts.

The evening of Valentine's Day, my 20 month old son decided to bend over to pick up his sippy and busted his eyelid open on our coffee table. Oh, the jokes! Once stitches were ruled out, anyway. How'd you not see that coming, G? Seeing as how it hit you in the eye. People would sympathize with our toddler, about how he had fallen on the coffee table. Oh, no, we would say. He just bent over. Ha.

This was the day before my doctor's appointment. I still wish I could go back to that day of barf and blood and four hours in the emergency room. That day sucked so hardcore, but I would trade it in an instant with any of the others that have followed. I cursed my pregnant body, thinking nausea was the worst of my woes. I held my toddler close, silently tsking at his random injury that cost us $400.

But that day, my 14 week old second-child, baby #2, my son or daughter, Grayson's brother or sister, was probably still alive. Because by the day after Valentine's Day, second-baby just wasn't.

I have learned a lot about grief in the weeks following my missed miscarriage.  

One. There is a lot of silence you'll want to fill up. Your doctor will search search search  for that damn sweet little heartbeat you were supposed to hear for the first time that day. The flatlines of your baby's no-heartbeat won't make that low tone of the movies that signals that life doesn't exist - it'll simply show up on the screen, smooth lines where there should be waves. The ultrasound technician will check the baby over and barely speak a word to you. You'll be handed so many tissues, the white wads of paperthin stuff spilling out of your hands, but no one will hand you a "your baby died" or "you miscarried" or "sweet Jesus, life will really suck for you for a long time now."

No one will even want to tell you how far along the baby was before it died, and so you'll have to ask. 14 weeks exactly. The horror of that will never go away. It could have happened only moments ago.

Two. A D&C makes things a little quicker, a little easier, than letting nature take its time. But when you wake up from anesthesia with tears streaming down your face, your hands outstretched even though you don't remember lifting them, mid-sentence of "give me my baby back," no one will look you in the eye. The nurses will ignore you until they decide it's time for you to pee now and get out, thank you very much. The minutes between consciousness and when your husband walks into the room feel longer than they are. He says your doctor heard you say, "the baby waved at me," when you first woke up, but you'll never remember saying those words. Only dream every fuckin' night of a tiny red hand held up in the air.

Oh, by the way, you'll throw up in the car on the way home, just like you did on Valentine's Day three days ago. But this time it's not from pregnancy hormones but from the anesthesia that kept you asleep while they took your dead baby out.

Three. Everyone and their sister has lost a baby just like you. A tiny few are worse, a few were further along or stillborn, and your heart can't even consider that pain. But most came early, way early, and you'll wail inside, I saw my baby at 9 weeks and baby was fine. Baby was healthy. Baby was kicking its miniature feet and tossing that head - oh god, its brain wasn't growing right and we didn't even know - and we should have heard a heartbeat that day, not silence.

You'll learn that people are awesome, even the ones you barely talk to anymore. You'll learn that your boss gets nervous, in a way you've never seen him in the past 12 years, when he brings up that in an effort to be a friend, and you'll be really touched. You'll learn that you can't keep your mouth shut about it, and it's not that you want to broadcast to everyone that you miscarried, but that it's all you can think about.  

Four. You'll grasp at any way possible to keep that baby alive in your life. Could I get a tattoo, when I have never considered one before? Could I get a special necklace or ring? Could I print out a picture of the 9 week ultrasound, put it in a pretty frame, and stare at it day after day? Could I get a stuffed lion, second-baby's birth sign would have been Leo, and cry into its fur in the middle of the night?

You'll have nothing but some old ultrasound pics and a hospital bracelet and three extra pounds that won't fit into your old jeans and a $4000 bill. And you can't change that. And you've never felt so helpless.

Instead, you'll cling to your toddler's life, your throat closing up anytime you let yourself pause. Every time he stumbles, somewhere deep inside, you gasp with fright. You'll have nightmares and think he's not breathing until you turn on the light and shout his name and shake his shoulder like a lunatic until you hear his sweet wail because you scared him you freak.

Five. Your toddler has an incredible ability to heal you from the inside out. When you come home from the hospital, he will sit in your lap and not want to leave, touching first the IV bandage on your left wrist and then the hospital band on the other, a furious look of concentration on his chub-chub face. He will hug you tightly and often, sometimes refusing to be parted by your side except for food and sleep. How does he know, you will wonder, that this is exactly what I need because he's not even two and he doesn't even talk yet. Maybe it's because you talked so often about the baby in your tummy and suddenly you didn't. Maybe he just knows in that psychic baby-just-knows-his-mama way.  

Last. Eventually, people stop talking about It, and you don't bring It up anymore because you'll sound depressed or obsessed or something else that makes people uncomfortable. Those on the fringes of your life will nod and think everything is okay now. Those with the down-low might know better. Really, it's because you become better at hiding the crack in your armor, the knowledge that perfect life can so quickly become broken life.

Eventually, or maybe instantly, you'll start to obsess about getting pregnant again in 1 or 2 months. Every twinge in your body becomes a sign of ovulation, and you'll count the days until a possible period over and over. And every once in a while, you'll stop and cry and promise second-baby that you're not trying to replace it, that if you had any choice you would still have him or her snugg-a-bug in your belly and dreaming of finding out its gender. Dreaming instead of refusing testing on the body so that you'll selfishly never know because your heart probably couldn't take it.

Eventually, or at least hopefully, you'll get pregnant again and give birth to a healthy baby with a healthy brain, and in the darkness of 2 am, with that baby tugging at your breast, you'll whisper, You had a brother or sister that we lost. Second-baby was so *beautiful*. 

And the memories, out they will spill.

that female thing we go through

I'm currently on my period.

And before you all run screaming to the hills - "oh my gawd, Alicia, TMI!" - let me say that I'm currently on that period. Oh yes, the first aunt flo after my miscarriage.

I feel kinda betrayed by my body. I'm still grieving, but my body decided almost two weeks ago to ovulate as though the past five weeks were the same as any normal month. It's like my D&C was the first day of my last period, and I ovulated right on time, and here I sit, having my period like it was any normal month.

I know I should be oh-so thankful - and I am! that my body didn't take forever to get back on track. Some women take months to get their first post-miscarriage and some need help from hormones to jump start their system. Some were never regular in their cycles to begin with, and I have never skipped a cycle, never been late. Got pregnant with G in one month and second-baby in two. I certainly know all of this.

And yet. And yet.

I was so happy when Fertility Friend, an awesome site for women who want to know more about their cycles, put up my crosshairs showing that I'd ovulated. Even more thrilled when I felt those tell-tale signs of a period approaching and then it started right on time. We want to start trying for baby #3 soon, and the sooner I started my period, the sooner we could start trying again.

And yet, there's a huge amount of bitterness that hangs in my mouth during all of this, a clench in my heart, a melancholy blanket that settles over me now and then. It's the period that never-should-have-been, another reminder that I'm not pregnant anymore.

I guess that feeling never goes away, does it? Everything will remind me of that, every period I have between now and when I (hopefully) get pregnant again. Every child I have after. Every time February 15th, the day we discovered the miscarriage, and August 15th, second-baby's due date, rolls around. Every time people ask me how many kids I have, and I struggle between saying one or two because that'll open a whole can of soap opera.

I was lucky that I never saw the blood of my actual miscarriage. The bleeding I had after my D&C was just leftovers, like what you have after giving birth. So my period is just that - a period. The bleeding all of us women go through in our lives, the bright red that's so normal for us.

At least for my body, it's just a period. My body has decided it's back to the usual business of being a woman, no matter what my heart says in protest.

it's guest-blogging time

I'm guest-blogging over at Letters to Mo today! Annie is so funny, and her son Cash who just turned one is seriously cute. I'm blogging about my miscarriage and what I've learned about grief. It's heavy stuff, but if you've been here for a while, you kinda know what to expect from me, right?

Go check it out!

last Friday night

I wasn't sure if I wanted to write about this.

It was by far one of the scariest moments of my life. It was also not one of my proudest. I let my fear take over me in a way that I rarely do, and I had to confront once again what happened to me the day after Valentine's Day, when we went in eager to hear our baby's heartbeat and left with having to make a decision of the best way to help my body miscarry a tiny child that had passed away only days before.

It happened deep into the night of last Friday, the first week anniversary of my D&C.

That Friday morning, Grayson had started running a fever, and by his nap, it was 101.6. He had a terrible but long nap, waking several times not moving and only crying, falling back asleep after I shushed him and stroked his sweaty hair off his neck. By the end of the day, he was still running a fever, yet we had no other symptoms that anything was wrong. I thought maybe it was just a cold about to manifest itself since I had just gotten over one, but we just didn't know.

Grayson went to bed early that night, clearly not feeling well. We watched him as we stayed up a few more hours. He barely moved from his stomach-down position besides turning his head side to side.

I woke up sometime after midnight to what I thought were Grayson's cries. They sounded weak and pitiful, like a baby trying to cry out but unable to muster up much strength. I rolled over and turned on the video monitor.

G was still in the same position he had been when we went to sleep. He was clearly not crying.

I stared at him for what seemed like a long time, trying to blink the sleep from my eyes and concentrate on his back. I stared for the tell-tale signs of his back slowly rising and falling, or for a twitch of his feet, or for any other sign of life. I stared and stared and saw nothing.

I was still calm. I touched Dave who was sleeping next to me, and he woke up easily. I asked him to look at the monitor to see if G was breathing. Dave watched for a while and never said anything.

I still stayed calm. "I'm going downstairs to check on him," I said. "Let me know if he moves." I put on my robe and went downstairs. I opened the door to G's dark room, and as I walked to his crib, he never moved. My hand didn't tremble as I placed it on his back, but I could feel my heart thudding in my chest.

His body was a little warm beneath my hand. I waited, expecting to feel the movement of his breathing, and I waited, but I couldn't feel anything.

My hand moved to his shoulder and I shook it gently. Nothing. I called his name softly, expecting him to shift a little in sleep. Nothing. I shook his shoulder harder, rocking his little face-down body side to side, and called his name again and again, my voice becoming louder and more shrill.

Still, nothing.

"Dave!" I ran to the door and turned on the light. I heard Dave moving upstairs. I turned to run back to the crib and made it halfway across the room when I heard it.

Grayson's wail.

I know when I bolted to his side, the light was off again. I must have turned it off before going to him, or maybe the dimmer was on the lowest setting, so that's why I couldn't see him clearly in the dark. He hadn't moved from his belly-down position or opened his eyes. But he was crying the sound he makes when he's frightened.

I had scared him.

His body was limp when I took him out of the crib. He folded his tiny body into me, immediately laying his head on my shoulder, still crying. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Mommy's sorry," I said into his ear. I cupped his head with my free hand, offering as much comfort as I could. My body was shaking. I was trying to hold it together and failing.

He stopped crying fairly quickly. I don't think he ever even opened his eyes. After a while, I put him back in his crib. He found his paci laying somewhere nearby and fell back asleep.

Of course, I completely broke down when I made it back upstairs. I had truly believed for a moment that something was seriously wrong with Grayson, that he was seriously sick or even, so terrible to say, dead. I felt horrible for projecting my own fears onto G, and for so thoroughly shaking up my husband that he barely slept the rest of the night.

After losing baby #2, I feel as though my life is on shaky ground. A 1 in 1,000 chance happened to me, and I don't know how I can ever recover from that. We think, "oh, it would never happen to me," but it did. I hope that night was just a combination of paranoia over Grayson's sickness and some dream I had before checking on him. I hope I won't always be checking over my shoulder with a lack of faith that my life can remain stable and happy, that my children won't be stolen from me without any warning.

That's not any way to live. And I certainly don't want to become overprotective with G, always afraid that he'll break a bone or suddenly run in front of a car. I hope to eventually find peace again.

Guest Blog: letter from Daddy

The hubs wanted to write to the baby, so here it is. I so love this man of mine.


I have tried to write this a half dozen ways at this point. For three days I wrote bits here, parts there, all the while being generally at a loss for words. Nothing worked, nothing fit, nothing felt right… then I realized my problem. I don’t want to write a blog. I don’t want to write my feelings, or my thoughts about this. All I’ve ever really wanted to do was talk to my child, the little lost one.

My precious little Baby,

I miss you. I never even had a chance to know you, but I miss you terribly.

Please forgive me if I ramble. Your Dad does that sometimes.

I only saw you the once, when you were 9 weeks old. You waved your little foot at me as if to say ‘hi,’ and commenced wiggling away for a solid five minutes, the whole time we watched you. I like to think that you never suffered or knew that anything was wrong. In my mind you never knew anything but that happy wiggling.

I cannot tell you how much I want to apologize for all the things we’ll never do. I was days away from starting The Hobbit, reading to you while you dozed within Mama. I wanted to do all the things that would come with life… I wanted to sing you to sleep, dance with you, read with you, laugh with you.

I’m sorry that I barely had a chance to say goodbye. When Mommy went into surgery, they took you both away far too quickly. I was hoping for a moment of privacy, a minute, a second… something to have a chance to say goodbye to you. But sooner than I was ready (I could have ever been ready?) they just started moving. My goodbye was too quick, but I hope you heard it, and I hope it was enough.

I hate to say that I’m almost a little mad at you (though I never truly could be). I’m mad at you for breaking your mother’s heart so irreparably. There you were, so much of her life, and then you just went away. I know it’s not your fault, but you’ve left me playing the role of the healer instead of the healing… trying to act as if I’m not hurting so that maybe, just maybe, your Mama wouldn’t be sad either… You would be proud of your brother, though. He’s been a great help to your Mama, filled with hugs and giggles. I’m so glad he’s here to help her, because Mama would be lost right now without him to focus on.

My Baby. You were supposed to be the final piece of the family puzzle, now you’ll always be the missing piece. No matter what we do, how much we try, how many children we have… we’ll always be missing you. I want you to know that. No matter if we have another child, it will always, in my heart, be child number three. You are a part of this family, forever.

Because of you there’s been a song stuck in my head for nearly a week now. Even while I’m singing to your brother this song is in my head. It’s just the chorus I hear, over and over again.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you, I wanted you to know.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you, and I still love you so.

Good night, Baby. Daddy loves you.

a pound of flesh

I gained three pounds in the 14 weeks I carried baby #2. This was way better than the eight or so I'd gained with G by the end of the first trimester. I was kinda excited about the idea that I might not gain so much weight this time around, especially because I was still carrying nine or so pounds from G. Dave and I had been talking about it just before my OB walked in to start the appointment. I had been so happy at that moment.

After the D&C, I weighed myself. I had lost a pound of those three I had gained with baby. A pound of baby and fluid and placenta was gone. As I dressed for work this morning, I realized that I don't even look pregnant anymore. I just look plump, a little thick around the waist. I lost a pound of baby; the other two are just the me that's left. I kind of hope my lack of appetite will help me lose some more.

I've been really cold since Saturday. I could tell my higher pregnant lady body temperature had dropped back down to a normal level. Instead of demanding that the ceiling fan be on during the night, I turn it off and huddle beneath mounds of blankets.

The nausea went away almost immediately. This was probably helped along by the patch they placed under one of my ears, but I took that off late Saturday and haven't had problems since. Is it sad that I almost miss this constant sign of pregnancy? I would give anything to be bent over the toilet right now, throwing up lunch because of baby's presence in my belly.

I'm dealing with a lot of skin breakouts, moreso than I even did with baby. My guess is the shifting hormones, everything settling back into normal not-pregnant me. I don't ache as much as I did, and pretty soon I doubt I'll need the pillow between my legs at night.

Overall, the recovery from the D&C has been easy. Little pain as long as I don't push myself, bleeding that slowed quickly after the first day, some tiredness but my painkillers can cause that. Of course, my heart will take much longer to heal. I have had dreams every night of a tiny red hand reaching toward me. I suppose eventually the crying will stop, as will the dreams. Eventually, we'll move on, maybe if we get pregnant again, maybe before that.

For now, I hold my toddler close.

the day after

I was swimming from deep underwater, trying to reach the top to breathe. A few seconds later, I did burst through to air, gasping in a huge breath as I made it.

I was crying.

My OB told Dave that my first words upon awakening were "It waved at me." It meaning the baby.

The first thing I remember was calling out for my baby, tears streaming down my face. I was back where I had started, in a small room with a curtain separating me from the hallway. The curtain was open, and I could see various nurses and other hospital staff walking around. Some looked at me, some didn't. No one said anything.

I had forgotten to say goodbye. I kept putting it off, not wanting to say it, not wanting to think it. I figured I could mourn and say goodbye right before they put me under. I barely remember being wheeled from that curtained room into the operating room. I do remember being so so cold in the operating room, and someone, maybe a nurse, explaining it was that way because all of the lights would cause the room to heat up soon.

I went under anesthesia and woke up to a panic attack.

"I didn't get to say goodbye," I said to no one in particular. "I need to say goodbye. Where is my baby? Can I see my baby? I want to hold my baby."

The moments after I fully woke seemed to stretch out forever to me before Dave came into the room. I hate that he saw me like that, but I did start to relax once I saw him. I woke up more fully and became more rational. Of course I couldn't hold my baby, and of course I couldn't see it. He or she was off to be examined, and then later cremated in a mass ceremony for all fetuses born that day. Becoming more fully aware of my reality did little to comfort.

The D&C went as well as could be expected. Dave says my OB was practically beaming when she came to speak with him in the waiting room. She had warned both of us that the baby was almost too large for a D&C, being 14 weeks along, and the surgery would be more difficult than they usually are for her. It could take anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour. It took her only 20 minutes. My body was ready, she said, either from the drugs they gave me - stronger than Pitocin - or because I was closer to miscarrying on my own anyway. I had cramped all that morning, so I figured it was a little of both.

My OB had used an ultrasound to guide her during the procedure. She told Dave that it had been obvious why the baby had not survived. Little kiddo had something wrong with its brain, a defect that was always fatal. Babies typically didn't survive even this long. My baby had been such a fighter.

We had a little consolation that there was nothing that we could have done to either prevent what happened or fix it. Every pregnancy has the same chance of this happening, no matter what you do or how many vitamins you take or how much you exercise or whatever. It's a fluke, a freak development. No one's fault. We'll find out more about what exactly happened to baby at my follow-up appointment in 1-2 weeks. However, my mind and heart are lifted a little by knowing it wasn't just some random infection that killed my baby.

Once I could get up and pee, we were allowed to go home a little over an hour after I woke. I fell asleep on the way home, woke up, and immediately had to throw up the small cup of water I drank at the hospital before leaving. Besides that one bout of nausea, I have felt fine. I've got good painkillers in me, and I only really feel pain when I get up and move around.

The last couple of days have felt so surreal to me. Pregnant, then not pregnant. So excited to have a newborn in the house again come August, then having to go home without a baby inside of me. I've put everything behind me for the moment, work, school, everything. My heart is healing, but I don't think it'll ever be the same again.

But come next week, I have to restart life. I have a 20-month-old on which to focus. G has been a huge healing factor for me. My oh-so sweet toddler has been giving me lots of hugs and cuddles, almost like he understands that Mommy is sad and needs them right now. When I came home with a hospital band on one arm and a large bandage covering my IV site on the other, G immediately focused on them. His little chubby face was so serious. He would touch one object on my arm, then the other. He would get up from my lap and touch them again. He would pick out another book to read, then touch them once again as he sat back down on my lap. His concern was obvious and it touched me deeply.

Dave and I are allowed to try again for another baby after I have a period or two. We're not quite sure what we want to do - I feel like I haven't mourned this baby enough, but maybe I'll be ready in a few months. Maybe I won't ever be truly ready again.

I woke up crying after the surgery. I haven't cried since. Maybe I'm just cried out. Maybe I'm glad it's over and I can start to heal. Maybe I'm just numb inside. A part of me left with that baby yesterday afternoon and I won't ever get it back.

grief

Because I'm a writer, I have to write this.

I'm  starting this post at 12:30 at night, Thursday morning. I'm not sure when I'll post it. I've been watching the clock as time moved into the next day, and the worst day of my life turned into yesterday. I'm wishing right now that yesterday was just a nightmare I just woke up from, and that tomorrow won't bring yet another nightmare I won't be able to forget.

I had started a different post yesterday but never got around to finishing it. I was going to title it "My Valentine's Day from h. e. double hockey sticks." Cute, right? My Valentine's Day really sucked hardcore.

I was going to write about how I threw up all over myself on the way to work. You know. The usual pregnant lady bitching about the nausea and why isn't it over yet? What a way to start Valentine's Day. I also got chocolate that morning, though, and chocolate can make most things better. Right?

I was going to write about how, yesterday afternoon, G busted his eyelid on the coffee table. He dropped his sippy cup on the floor, bent to pick it up, and somehow didn't see that coffee table coming out of nowhere.

We can joke about it now, but at the time there was blood and a lot of talk about stitches. We were told to go to the children's ER, so off we went. After making it through triage, we waited two and a half hours only to be told, hmm, you know, it's more superficial than anything, so we'll leave it alone. We made it home late after being at the hospital for almost four hours. Poor G hadn't eaten since 3 o'clock because stitches near a toddler's eye means sedation, so we'd been told not to give him anything. Yeah, I'm still kind of pissed about that.

I was going to write about the super awesome Valentine's Day package my mom sent us in the mail. G still hasn't gotten to open it, though.

Of course, Valentine's Day is now the day before yesterday.

Yesterday, we had a routine monthly exam at the OB to see how baby #2 was doing. We had G with us since it should have been a simple in-and-out visit. I believe my words were, as my OB squirted gel onto my stomach, "I can't wait to hear the heartbeat for the first time."

I guess I should have kept my mouth shut.

The seconds ticked by. My OB searched and searched and searched for that heartbeat. I stared up at the ceiling. Where are you, baby? Say hi for mommy, okay? Stay calm, stay calm.

My OB left and returned with a rather old ultrasound machine. We were probably the last appointment of the day, and not many people were still around. It was pretty easy to see that there was no movement in the chest cavity to indicate a heartbeat.

I think that's when I started crying. My OB didn't say much yet, but I knew. Oh, I knew. She mentioned that the head seemed misshaped. I asked if that was because the baby had started to decay. She said probably, yes. I don't think anyone ever said, your baby has died. Maybe there are some things that just don't need to be said.

My OB called around to find a real ultrasound technician. It took a while, but one was found. They stayed late for us, taking measurements of the baby. The technician asked if I wanted to watch the monitor. I didn't hesitate and said yes. I owed my baby that much, to catch my last glimpses of him or her. I couldn't look away now.

The baby didn't look that bad. I saw a head, the body, some hands, some feet. It was beautiful. Hi, baby. I'm sorry Mommy couldn't protect you. I'm sorry we can't meet you in August like we were supposed to. The technician scanned the chest cavity and the heart rate pattern came up. Only straight lines. I'm sorry we never got to actually hear your heartbeat. It was so strong at 9 weeks. I love you, I love you, I love you.

The technician didn't say much. I was handed tissue by various people. I did ask her how far along the baby was measuring and she said 14 weeks. I was 14 weeks along that day. The baby had likely passed sometime in the past few days.

We went back to our OB. The office was pretty much shut down, with just her and her nurse there. We talked about why this might have happened (who knows?) and since it was my first miscarriage, it didn't raise my chances of having another (though it was a later miscarriage), and here were the options of how to pass the baby (naturally or D&C; we've now decided to do the latter).

She gestured at G, who was in Dave's arms and being so patient. She said to focus on what we had, that we had proved a pregnancy of ours could turn into something so beautiful.

I nodded. But inside, I was selfish. I wanted my other beautiful baby too.

She said she could probably do a D&C on Friday, if we wanted. That's what we've decided to do now. Apparently passing a baby this far along naturally can be very painful. I want to do what's best for me, and I also want to do what gives my baby the most dignity.

I'm not at all grossed out by the fact that I'm still carrying my baby right now. I won't be able to ever hold him or her in my arms, but I can hug he or she with my whole body for the next two days. I can whisper that I love him or her, I can say I'm sorry, and I can promise that I will see them again one day. 

Tomorrow, I will be put under anesthesia, with a breathing tube down my throat. When I wake up, my baby will be gone. I won't get to see him or her or take him or her home with me. I won't be pregnant anymore. I'll have to finally make myself say goodbye. The image I want burned into my brain for the rest of my life isn't one from these last few days - the misshapen body of my baby, the heart rate monitor that showed no heartbeat, how much flatter my belly will be tomorrow evening.

I want, most of all, to remember how much my baby, looking perfectly healthy, moved at our first ultrasound at almost 9 weeks. How he or she wiggled hands and feet and threw that head about, testing the waters of this newfound movement. I will cherish the images we have of our second child, and think, so very often 

Mommy loves you.