My last post was very difficult to write, and shared a very, very hurtful thing that I am still finding myself coping with.
On April 17th, 2016, I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child. I enjoyed the news for 48 hours. On the 19th began ten days of constant blood level monitoring and ultrasounds. I watched my baby develop a sac, a fetal pole…and then he died. On April 29th, I began to miscarry. The day before, we had gone out to celebrate Autumn’s birthday dinner, which had been postponed because of what I was going through. While we were eating, a storm blew threw. It was fast and it was pretty bad…but as we were leaving, we saw this:
At the time, I tried to see it as a sign of hope even though the numbers had not been good. Then, when my miscarriage was confirmed the next day, I viewed it as a sign of goodbye. I lost my baby. I grieved. I raged. I was devastated.
Five months later, the Mister and I had since decided that we’d have no more children. He didn’t want to see me go through it. I didn’t want to go through it.
I was cutting onions on September 17th when I felt suddenly sick to my stomach. I had a test left over from April, and I took it.
It was positive. The Mister thought someone I loved had died with how hard I was crying. I was devastated, because a part of me was certain that I would go through it all over again. This fear was compounded when I was back in the ER with pain and spotting…5 months to the very day after the ordeal of my impending miscarriage began. My panic was even greater because I had the EXACT same doctor…and grew in intensity when my Hcg came back at 121, lower than it had been on April 19th. Here we go again…I thought.
But two days later…310. 48 hours after that, 936. Then almost 2500. Up and up my numbers went. An ultrasound on September 28th showed an empty sac, but this time, instead of doom and gloom, the OB was optimistic. “Maybe you ovulated late. Let’s wait a week.” And after every single visit, “Don’t Stop Believin'”, the favorite song of a friend who was no longer with us, played on the radio. She’d had two miscarriages herself.
One week later, on October 5th….
A baby. My baby. With a heartrate of 146. Don’t stop believin’. And even so, I still found it hard to believe. My mind refused to accept this. I had to make it to 12 weeks. I had to make it to the first movement, the 24th week, the 30th…delivery…I was a wreck emotionally.
On November 2nd, I tripped on a vacuum cord and fell down five stairs before I caught myself. After very light spotting and a boatload of pain, I decided to go get checked out, if only for, as my OB put it, my own peace of mind.
I was terrified. Surely we hadn’t come this far for it all to end like this. Had I not had a miscarriage in April, I might not have even gone in. But…I was terrified.
They tried to get a heartbeat with the doppler and had a hard time. Two very different numbers. And then…the ultrasound.
My baby, measuring 11 weeks. Heart rate of 177.
I am still terrified, I am still nervous…but that storm, and the rainbow…
It wasn’t a sign of hope, and it wasn’t a goodbye. It was a ‘this is going to hurt for a bit, but I promise you’ll see the rainbow’.