How many times must I sit here, hiding my eyes and my body from others in the waiting room? Why must I look down, stare at my hands, my phone, anything but the dreaded pamphlets or woman all around me? Why can’t I walk in, head held high, excitement running through my veins instead of the ever-lurking anxiety? This office can hold the best news and at the same time the most devastating, heart wrenching, kick you in your gut and change you forever news. Remember back when I was happy? Before… all of this. I miss those times. I miss the blissful ignorance – I am a temple, nurturing life, a goddess falling in line with the matriarchs who came before me. Even then, I only felt that for a couple months, right after the: Okay, things are going to be okay, we’re out of the first trimester phase, and the things are NOT okay phase. “We don’t see this very often.” Complications. High risk. Bedrest. But we made it. We stayed strong. She stayed strong. We made it, almost to the end, not exactly how we pictured it. We were three.
He was ready for another. I, of course, planned around Mardi Gras. Just give mama Mardi Gras, she deserves it. That was the first lesson. 1. Don’t wait. Mardi Gras is not an excuse. Things might not be as easy as you thought. It wasn’t. It isn’t. Well, fast forward to me not being great at being pregnant, to we are really good at conceiving. A few months later, we were. Don’t tell anyone. We waited with Her until 10 weeks to tell our families. We will wait again. The first appointment: “It must be too early still, let’s get the levels checked.” The call: I thought my heart was going to fall out of my chest – “You need to come in.” The waiting room again. I didn’t know this feeling. I would need to tell our family, for the first time, that this joy was coming, but now it isn’t. Four days later, at 8.5 weeks, I sat on my couch holding my husband’s hand as it started. It is horrible and disturbing. It lasted 2 weeks, having to go back to the doctor for medication (and the waiting room) for what couldn’t complete naturally. I was devastated. “It happens to lots of women.” Yes, yes it does. I thought after how difficult pregnancy was with Her, it wouldn’t happen to me. It did. I joined a group of women I wanted no part of. But we are here, suffering, silently, because you didn’t know. We are here, broken, on the couch, not returning your calls, staring blankly at the wall.
“You have to wait 2 months.”
I went to the mountains. I swam in natural hot springs. I tried to renew my body, my soul, my mind. Then, again, it wasn’t difficult, and we were. I was terrified. Can you imagine not being excited when you find out? Not running to tell your spouse, but walking slowly, showing him, and thinking… here we go again. I tried to stay positive. I did as best as I could. I waited longer to call the doctor.
Let me just hold on to this for a bit, just us.
Then, the waiting room, the first appointment, and walking away with the sound we were so desperately seeking, the heartbeat. I made it past 8.5 weeks and began to breathe. At 9.5 weeks, we went home to see my family and told them. I even brought the sonogram. Four days after we got back, he was reading Her a story before bed on a Thursday night, when I saw the first sign and tried to catch my breath. I called him in. He said it wasn’t bad… it might be normal. I called the hotline. I went to bed – ha, I tried to close my eyes. By morning, I knew it wasn’t normal. I called the hotline. I dropped Her off at school and drove myself to the ER. I lay there alone, staring at a drop ceiling, in a tiny darkened room, with two women for twenty minutes, and they didn’t say a word. Neither did I. I just tried to breathe and stare and pray it would be over soon. About four hours later, the words you never want to hear. The words you never want to hear twice. At 10.5 weeks, “we lost the heartbeat.” Shock. Devastation. Whose heart stopped? Mine? We elected to have a procedure this time. I said goodbye to my husband and lay alone, again, staring at that ceiling, clutching my stomach, tears rolling down my eyes. I whispered goodbye to what I would never know and never see because I knew as soon as I woke up, it would all be over. I woke up 10.5 weeks and by nightfall, it was over. I sat on the couch, uncomfortable, in pain. She wanted to know why mama was sick. We watched a movie together. I held Her close. Lesson 2: Painkillers won’t work for this. I am part of another, even smaller group of women, but yes, this does happen.
“You have to wait 2 months.”
I went to the islands with my husband. I hiked. I swam in the ocean with turtles. I went to the top of a volcano at sunrise and ate all of the sushi, and then I just cried. I really tried. I came home and started therapy. Can I do this again? If I am going to even try to do this again, I need help and I need it now. Then, again, we were. And before we could even call the doctor…we weren’t. At 5 weeks, it happened again. Lesson 3: get the help. Man, did I need it. I was back on the couch, but when I told my husband that the universe is trying to ruin my Mardi Gras. He told me maybe the universe was giving me Mardi Gras because I needed it. I had the tools, I was stronger, I didn’t fall apart. I went to every parade, I watched the joy in Her eyes as the floats went by, and I tried, man, did I try. But it was over before I could even begin to comprehend it. Now my group of women has gotten very small. I feel alone. I don’t know anyone like me. But yes, this does happen.
“You have to wait 2 months.”
I stayed in therapy. I tried to breathe. I tried to remember the things I loved to do. I drew. I tried to be grateful for what I had. Two close friends told me they were pregnant. Inside, I fell apart. Inside, I felt even worse for feeling crushed. Complicated. Three meant testing, specialist, the waiting room…eyes down. “Everything is normal.” Ok? Great? Keep trying. Can I? Then, again, we were. No excitement, brace for what’s coming. Pretend it isn’t happening. Specialist, heartbeat 5.5 weeks. Breathe. First appointment, waiting room…eyes down. Breathe. Heartbeat 8.5 weeks, made it, breathe. Dating ultrasound, heartbeat 10 weeks, made it, breath. Tell our families. Please don’t celebrate. Today, waiting room, eyes down, breathe. Today, exam room, eyes down, breathe. Today, Doppler, heartbeat 13 weeks, tears, breath. “You are just like everyone else now. No greater chance. Try to breathe, you’re doing a great job.” I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to acknowledge it.
Let me just hold on to this for a bit, just us.
Our rainbow arrived two and a half years ago. The experience changed me and so has she. One day, I will tell Her just how much she was wanted, how precious She is. She is her name, a light of love, Ahava Ora.