Wow! A positive pregnancy test. We’d been trying for a while, so this news was quite welcome — four weeks plus a few days. Obviously, the first task was calculating the due date. End of June. What a lovely time of year to have a baby! Images of long walks to the lake and naps outside drift through my head as I check out my belly in the mirror.
Task #2: Call the doctor and make an appointment. The receptionist sets it up for eight weeks. Eight weeks? So far away! I want to meet this little one now! I can hardly believe I am pregnant, so over the next few days I use up the rest of my pregnancy tests confirming and reconfirming — yup, we are having a baby!
I confide in my girlfriend and she tells me that she too is expecting and due one week before me. She is my new best friend, my partner in crime. Although this is the second pregnancy for both of us, it feels just as exciting as the first time around.
We tell our parents and siblings and then take an oath of secrecy until Week 12. Dennis wonders why I am so superstitious, having had a perfect “round one,” but I just can’t help it. Days go by and my pants get tighter by the minute.
After what seems like ages, Week 8 is upon us and we are on our way to the doctor. I tell Dennis that although it’s too early to tell, we are surely having a girl because the Chinese Lunar Calendar online said so. We laugh and make our way to the waiting room. The nurse calls us in and gives me a huge packet of papers, brochures and a new mommy bag from some formula company. She says we are the fifth couple to come in that day for a first appointment and that something must be in the air.
Statistically, I suppose I should have known: I’d read some statistic about one in five pregnancies ...
But instead I marvel at all the baby-making going on as they take my blood pressure and then move over to the ultrasound room. The doc comes in and there are congratulatory smiles and well wishes all around.
I can hardly wait to see the little bean! As the lights dim and she turns the screen so that I can see it, I hold my breath and search for the little life inside me. There! I see it. The doc clicks around, taking measurements, and is silent. I say, “Can you tell me what I am looking at?” She says, “I’m just looking for a heartbeat.”
Wait. No. Wait. Out of the corner of my eye I see Dennis bring his hands to his face as he watches the doctor for any sign in either direction. Oh, no. She takes a breath and the tears are already pouring out of my eyes. Please don’t say it. ... The next few minutes are a blur, as she asks my consent to bring another doctor in and we go through it all again.
All I remember are words like enlarged yolk sac and miscarriage and D&C (dilation and curettage). Then she says that by the measurements, it looks like the baby died four days prior. Four days, four days, four days ... what did I do wrong four days ago? I rack my brain for answers as she tells me it’s no one’s fault and there’s nothing anyone could have done differently to change this outcome. Four days.
Now what? I have a no-longer-living, precious little bean inside of me that doesn’t belong there anymore. That is the hardest part. The D&C is scheduled for Thursday, three days from now, and I return all the baby paperwork and bag. We leave the office devastated and heartbroken. My parents come up Wednesday night to care for Henry while we are gone on Thursday, and my Catholic mother is a flurry of worry and prayers. It’s comforting to have someone worry about me when most of the time I am worrying about Dennis and Henry.
I am eager to get it all over with. I feel so strange. I was just beginning to show. Thursday morning comes around and Dennis and I head to the hospital. The same hospital that brought us so much joy when Henry was born two and a half years ago. We go through the paperwork and I change into a gown. As I wait in pre-op, Dennis comes in and we talk about what could have been. The conversation now is more resolved and sad, and we talk about names for this little one. Gabriel. My little angel baby.
It’s finally time, and the doctor comes into the room to explain how the procedure will go. It’s only 15 minutes, she says. Dennis and I say our goodbyes, and I follow the nurse to the operating room. So many machines dedicated to me. I can’t help but feel important — four nurses, a doctor and an anesthesiologist, all there for me — well, for me plus one. I drift off quickly, right after asking if the song on the radio, “Daydream Believer,” was on purpose: “Cheer up, sleepy Jean/Oh, what can it mean ...” I think I fell asleep smiling.
Then, in an instant, it’s over, and I am in a semi-private area. A nurse comes by and checks my vitals, and a few minutes later I’m wheeled back to the room I started in. Dennis comes in and I offer to share my saltines and ginger ale. He looks tired and concerned.
I am so glad it’s all over and can’t wait to go home and see Henry, my perfect “round one.” Dennis and I laugh at how much fun he must have had with his grandparents while we were away. We agree that our attempt to have another is not yet over, just temporarily paused. He holds my hand as I get in the car and we leave it behind us. The emotional recovery will be a while in coming, but I am optimistic about what the future holds for us.
*Names have been changed in this story. The photo above is a stock image.