I debated writing this. Not because of being ashamed. But because I really don’t want to make it seem like I’m looking for sympathy. So the concession I made to the writer in me that insists every mood, thought, and fart I have make it to paper, is that I will begin with this:
I’m not trying to get sympathy. I am one who councils myself, and digs for understanding of my life, through allowing thoughts to manifest themselves into the physical world by way of words. This is my gym, bro. And this is my blog, so I make the rules.
I knew for 4 days that we were expecting baby #3. We were not planning, or trying, it was a shock.
I was a little late, and had no sign of any physical symptoms of a period. So as I walked passed my bathroom vanity, I wondered if any pregnancy tests lay hidden from when we were trying before (3+ years ago now). I was doing it more for peace of mind and reassurance than worry. There were a few, old and expired, but in the wrapper none the less. So I used one, placed it back on the vanity, and continued to laugh at a TikTok, genuinely unconcerned about what the test would reveal. As I took a side glance at the test mid-laugh, I saw two lines. (for those of you that aren’t familiar, that is a big +, for POSITIVE).
I think I said “Oh, Fuck” no less than 42 times.
I lost it. All thoughts of reality, and what this could mean for me and my family, came crashing through my skull at the same time. All the mom guilt. All at once. Man, I had no idea how much guilt I’ve been carrying around until all of the sudden my faculties were shaken.
I wish I could say I had a better response. A more magical, EPT commercial worthy, response. But I’ve done this before. And its a pandemic. And. Ill stop before listing all the things that are worrisome and suck about the world currently.
So 6 tests later (after a trip to the drug store) confirms it all again. We’re having baby number three.
And over the course of 4 days. We feel all the feelings. The ups and downs, because there are both. Having a two year old, and almost four year old, I’m just about out of baby hood. I’m starring down the barrel of toddler #2, and simultaneously enjoying and soaking up (mostly) uninterrupted sleep and reclaiming my body as my own.
And I’m also remembering how soft my babies hair was. And all of the sudden I’m feeling the tufts, warm, almost hot, under my chin as I sit rocking. And I’m remembering how soundly they slept on my chest. And their baby giggles, hiccups, and sneezes. The magic of the bond. The fire that burned so fiercely from the second the first sound wave of their cry met my eardrum. The late nights wrapped warm in each others embrace.
The little hands.
A sense of all encompassing purpose and direction. What a magical gift.
And just like that, I’m excited for baby number three. Mama Bear taps in.
The next day our family stays in the for the day. My husband and I are wrapping our heads around what the next 9 months should look like, and our kids are blissfully unaware of anything out of the norm. My husband starts asking about names. We decide to not find out the sex. We try to be excited while also being crushed by the surprise and worry.
And the next night, a little blood. But I’m an experienced pro. I’ve done this twice. So it’s probably nothing. Ill call the midwife in the morning.
The next morning. A little more.
Where the hell is my midwifes number? (more worry, but still taping in to the confidence that having two children has given me).
I am now on my way to the gym , kids packed in the car, and I hear back from my midwife early and quickly. (fast jolt of adrenaline that leaves my face flush)
She says: “Any bleeding in early pregnancy is not typical, but may be fine. Take this script, and get blood work to see if pregnancy is viable and progressing. We will go from there. Busy at a labor, will talk soon.”
All of the sudden my smug confidence (that has taken me years to accumulate might I add) has fallen out of my seat and through the floor of my vehicle, and is currently being run over by every other car on Rt 100 right now.
I am crying, trying to figure out the fastest way to Labcorps, all while pretending to my kids that the reason we just sped out of the gym parking lot is because I’m too nervous to workout today. My son is now counseling me saying “Its OK mom, if you get scared Ill be right in the other room you can come get me.” and now I’m REALLY sobbing, for a multitude of reasons.
The next part of the story is an example of how broken and dismal the healthcare system is currently:
I check in at 10:15 (no appointment, obviously). I am seen at 3:15. There is one person working the computer and one person drawing the blood. They take no lunch to accommodate all of the people waiting. From chatting with other people waiting I find out all of the the other Labcorps in the area are closed or only taking appointments due to short staffing.
In this 4 hour wait period, I am scared, trying to sidetrack children, and attempting to stay positive. The entire time I am waiting, I don’t use the bathroom because
A) there is no bathroom
B) I don’t want to face reality.
I consider giving up on multiple occasions, but realize I can’t.
I finally get seen, and am told I need a hard copy of the script, an email isn’t good enough. I inform them I am not leaving without blood getting taken. They magically find the script on their system and agree to take me back.
The woman taking my blood informs me this is her first day (it is unclear to me if she is talking about first day at this location, or at being a phlebotomist in general).
After three jabs and fishing around under my skin for what felt like 5 minutes, my dehydrated veins finally produce enough blood to fill one. tiny. vial.
I am scolded for being so dehydrated.
I leave to go home, all the while dreading using the bathroom when I get there, afraid at what I might find.
I get the kids settled with graham crackers and a strawberry smoothie in front of sesame street (God save Elmo), and take the slow walk up to the bathroom.
A quick glance shows blood. And my heart gives out.
The frustration from the day is released out of me through my tears, and I allow myself to face the reality of the fact that I am probably losing baby number three.
The midwife’s quick email keeps running through my head “no blood in early pregnancy is typical.”
I call my husband, who has been communicating with me all day from work, and admit that there is definite bleeding. I think I’m miscarrying.
The night is a blur. Beyond the emotions and dehydration, I feel flu like symptoms. Stomach ache, fever on and off, and itchy?! I don’t know why the last one, but if I google search enough I’m sure I could find the answer.
I make a point to read to the kids for a long time before they go to sleep, in our bed, deep in the covers with lots of pillows around. They are both exhausted from not napping all day paired with the prolonged boredom they had to endure, so they are willingly lying still and being very cuddly.
I decide to read to the three of them, thinking “If this is the only chance I will get, then I am going to take it”. And I am secretly wiping tears away behind my kids back, and every now and then taking turns hugging my lower belly and the ball of cells I can feel beginning to break free.
I hug my kids tightly and lovingly that night, before I tuck them into bed. And like the hyper receptive all knowing little beings they are, they give me exactly what I need. Long hugs, no words, and understanding. In that moment, I am the most grateful I have ever been for them and the gift of having them in my life.
That night there is no more questioning what is happening. It is happening and there is nothing to do about it.
The next morning I hear back from the midwife early. My bloodwork results explain the bleeding. There is nothing left to do but wait and take care of myself.
It’s back to being just me, again. And the prenatal vitamins are thrown in the far corner of my fridge, with the labels facing backwards so I can’t read them. And the positive pregnancy test sticks are in the bottom of my trash can. And I need to stack wood because we are all out and our house is cold.
And I am nursing the the most violent whiplash wound that my soul has ever experienced.
Yes, I know if I did not have that old crusty test sitting in the back of my medicine cabinet, I might not have even known I was pregnant. And I would have saved myself and my loved ones the roller coaster of emotions we just got to ride. And I would have made it to my workout. But I did test, and we did know. And we had a fleeting time of excitement and expectation and hope that was followed by loss.
So here is a brief (not definitive) list of the things this experience has reminded me to be grateful for, in no particular order:
My Body. It has saved me and worked for me and tried for me despite 33 years of demanding a lot and giving a little.
My Heart. It’s beat has always been driven by the naivety and hope of the forever 8 year old me that fiercely guards it. I am so proud of that little girl keeping vigilant watch over it for all these years, allowing me to still feel and desire to express all encompassing love.
My Children. They are the true good that I have helped bring in to the world. And I cant wait to see what they do and who they choose to be.
My Husband. We have been journeying together for years, adding to our packs and picking up better walking sticks along the way while tossing the ones that no longer work to the side. I am proud of the tenderness we have uncovered for one another through this.
This experience has left me reeling. I have always felt deeply for those who experience any sort of pregnancy or child loss, while simultaneously never allowing myself to believe it would happen to me. Low and behold I find out all the things I have said to others in the past to try and help them ( it is common, your body is working the way it should. Its not indicative of a deeper problem) is just white noise.
Hope for a child is really hope to feel and express potential all encompassing love. And that is everything in life. And it is worth taking a second to address how you feel when you experience losing that hope, if that reality chooses you.
Thanks for reading and sticking along. I promise more food things again and soon.