If I’ve been a little quiet and mum on the state of affairs lately, it’s because the last few weeks have been very interesting and exciting, to say the least.
After the miscarriage in early April, I was due to finally begin my “month of monitoring” at my clinic. I had to wait until I had my period again to start the bloodwork, as a miscarriage wasn’t “a true bleed,” to use their terms. So I waited… and waited… and waited…. Until the clinic called to confirm my follow-up appointment with the doctor. “But I haven’t gotten my period and I haven’t done the month of monitoring, so shouldn’t I reschedule?” “We’ll reschedule for next month and we’ll have you come in tomorrow for an ultrasound, just to make sure everything’s okay.”
The next day the technician had a very good reason why I hadn’t gotten my period. “You’re pregnant! There’s your baby!” And six weeks along, too. “WHAT?!” It was the same response I had when my husband proposed. She turned the ultrasound screen and showed me the baby’s heartbeat. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was happy, thrilled, exhiliarated, scared, doubtful all at once. I cried a little. Then she printed a few photos and I left the clinic, stunned.
All the ways I had dreamed of telling my husband this news flew out the window. Mercifully the ride home takes a leisurely 20 – 25 minutes, and I used every moment to calm myself down and figure out what to say. It turns out it’s not really that easy. “How’d it go?” he casually asked as he rinsed off the patio. “I’m pregnant,” I
said muttered, shrugged, and pulled out the ultrasound photo from my back pocket. “Wow,” he said, and hugged me and kissed my head. I was a little confused by his exceptionally calm response, and it took me a few days to finally drag it out of him why he responded that way.
“We’ve been through this before,” he said. “And given the issues we’re facing, you don’t want to get your hopes up too high, you know?” But I said to him instead, “I just need to know you’re okay with this, so that I can deal with it.” And despite this mildly somber attitude, he did start making jokes about not allowing me to cut the grass (on the riding mower), to lay on the couch, put my feet up, and eat bon bons all day long. Which I wouldn’t complain about, actually. Do they make frozen bon bons anymore?
The following week I had several “Oh shit, what did I do?” moments. It was a panic wondering if this is what I even wanted with my life, having just gone through yet another month of talking myself into loving a childless life. Then I started feeling like my stomach was clenched – as if I was hungover, but without the mental hangover. Like a sour stomach, which kept me nibbling all day long to not feel the upset. Some days were better than others. My bras hurt and I started wearing my older bras (from when I was heavier and had a larger cup size). I had bouts of exhaustion that caused me to yawn all day long at work, not want to exercise, and sometimes just curl up on the couch and take a nap. And my superwoman power – an obnoxiously clear and distinct sense of smell – returned as it had during the miscarriage.
Holy crap, I’m pregnant.