I don’t even know how to start this. I’ve started in my head a hundred times since yesterday. Last Tuesday was my birthday. It was wonderful. Perfect. And then I came home and had a feeling, so I ran to the store and came back with a box of pregnancy tests.
10dpo, positive. More pregnancy tests, all positive. Digitals. Positive. Tests with lines still so very faint. Reassuring friends told me it’s so early for the line to be dark, don’t worry.
12 dpo, still registering positive on the digitals. Beta. I drive with “Don’t Stop Believin” cranked on my radio on repeat for the 20 minutes it takes me to get there. 24 hours for results.
Crappy nurse asks me to go for another beta on 14dpo, and would I like to schedule my OB ultrasound now? Right, because I’m certain everyone with a beta of 14 goes on to see a happy little heartbeat on an ultrasound. No, thanks, I’ll wait and see how the second beta looks.
Up early Saturday to have them blow another vein for me, bruises are just so chic. The tech asks me, “How do your numbers look?” Unable to conceal what’s written on my face I simply say, “Not good. Low.” She wishes me well and I hide in the bathroom after, my face covered in tears. I realize I’m going to have to walk through the waiting room crying if I’ve any hope of getting home in the next hour so I hang my head and hurriedly walk through the busy lab and make it to my car before completely breaking down.
I wait to drive since I can’t see through my tears. I try to keep myself busy since it will be another 24 hours before I get results. This cruel and unusual punishment inflicted by my clinic on women barely lucky enough to have insurance coverage (or 50% insurance coverage in my case) is maddening.
Saturday night, J ends up in our bed after a bad dream. I know the earliest I can get someone on the phone is 6am. I tiptoe out of bed, close my closet door, and make the call.
I crawl back into bed between H and J. I stifle a sob and H wakes up. I tell her, and she quietly puts her arm around me and I try as best I can to cry quietly and not scare J. I succeed in waking her but she doesn’t figure out I’m upset and we play with our new kitten for awhile. Like the day before, J won’t leave my side. She’s glued to me. Bathroom, changing my clothes, wherever I am, she’s right on my heels. She spent most of Saturday snuggling me on the couch.
Sometimes they know things we don’t.
I kick myself for the hope I felt Friday. Before the 14. Calculating a due date. Calculating what a good beta jump would look like. Imagining the twins giving goodnight kisses to my growing belly.
I don’t know how to do this. Lose another. I didn’t even think I could get pregnant like this, that it was a major longshot. And the first person who says anything close to “well at least you got pregnant” is going to earn a punch in the face. Because what fucking good does THAT do? I can’t even come up with a good enough comeback for that one.
My body isn’t even close to on board yet. Regardless of how crappily low my HCG level is, my body is doing things it only does when pregnant. And I just want it to stop.
“Chemical pregnancy.” That phrase is such bullshit. It’s a miscarriage. Plain and fucking simple. It might be early, but that’s what it is. Another loss.
This week’s distraction is the first day of school. I’m grateful for it despite the added emotional turmoil it causes. Because it forces me to pull it together for the kids. And it reminds me I still have much to be grateful for.
But in the dark of night, alone with my thoughts, I’m devastated to add another star to the night sky.