Broken

As I write this I am miscarrying my baby.

It is very painful.

Physically, yes, but emotionally–spiritually–much more so.

I feel…so…broken.

And I miss my tiny baby.  My itty bitty baby who never had a heartbeat, but who we loved nonetheless.  I am (was?) seven weeks pregnant with our second child.  Ruby, our first, is delightful and brave.  And busy.  Always busy.  At 18 months she is in desperate need of a sibling, and I am oh so ready to give her one.

I’ve been ready, for awhile now, but just wasn’t getting pregnant.  Finally we used the First Response Ovulation Test and conceived the first month.  We found out on August 18th.  We were ecstatic.

I started spotting a week and a half ago, and went in for an ultrasound.  Everything looked ok and it was still a little early for a heartbeat, but I sensed that something was amiss.  I didn’t feel pregnant–I felt amazing, energetic–and thought that maybe I was just very lucky this time around.  Maybe I would avoid the nausea and crushing exhaustion I had experienced with Ruby.  Outwardly I attributed this to paleo.

Deep down inside I think I knew.

Yesterday the spotting got worse.  After consulting with the advice nurse over the phone I went in for an ultrasound and a chat with one of the midwives.   I had the same ultrasound tech as last week, and she was so nice.  She took a long time, but still could not detect a heartbeat, and the baby had not grown since last week.

The midwife, Laura, broke the news that we would lose the baby.  She was lovely and reassuring and kind.  She said all the right things: that I had no trouble getting pregnant, that I carried Ruby to term, that I would have more beautiful, healthy babies.  I sobbed and sobbed.  Matty, my mom, and Ruby were all there with me.  They were sad too, but rocks for me to lean on.  Laura said that she would do a blood test to be sure, and then we could discuss my options: miscarrying at home, with or without medication; or a D&C.

I didn’t end up needing any confirmation, nor did I have time to think about options.  Last night, shortly after arriving home from the hospital, the bleeding and cramping got exponentially worse, and lasted through the night.  I tried to sleep, to no avail.  I cried, watched reruns of sitcoms on late-night TV, and came downstairs to start writing this post.  Eventually the pain subsided enough for me to fall into an uncomfortable sleep.

Yesterday was the eleventh anniversary of 9/11.  Compared to the tragedy of that horrible day, my pain is tiny, minuscule.  To me it is vast and deep.  We will never know this baby, never hold him or her in our arms.  Ruby will never kiss the baby’s tiny cheek.

Now I understand why expectant mothers wait until after the first trimester to announce a pregnancy.  I dislike keeping secrets, especially happy ones, and there is no history of miscarriage among my maternal grandmother (nine children), my mother (five), or my older sister (four).  We joke that God gave us child-bearing hips for a reason.  At 30 I am still young; surely this couldn’t happen to me.

So I told people, and now I have to un-tell them, and that just seems like a terrible burden right now.

I know that I am blessed beyond measure; with a loving, supportive husband and family, and with a daughter who is precocious and sweet.  We wanted this baby, had already carved out a space for him or her, and I am not yet ready to let go and move on.

Goodbye sweet baby, you are loved.  I carry you in my heart.