The End

Even as the pregnancy didn't feel "real," I knew that it was normal, because nothing had given me a reason to believe it wasn't. Simply put, the pregnant woman cannot feel the baby. Many women have some spotting or bleeding in the first trimester--I had none. I couldn't yet feel my uterus emerging from my pelvic region at almost twelve weeks, but that too was not enough of a problem to make me worry seriously. I had been told I have a "tipped" uterus at my ultrasound. My reaction was, "Oh really? So does my mom!" Not worried; my mom had four healthy, full-term pregnancies. So maybe my uterus was still righting itself before becoming noticeable from the outside.

But my fatigue did lessen noticeably, well before the end of the first trimester. How could I have known that was the only clue that anything was wrong? Why shouldn't I have been glad that I didn't have to spend most of my days sleeping?

[TMI alert!] Two weeks ago, I started to have yucky trouble with hemorrhoids. It was scary to see blood at first, but as soon as I confirmed the source (NOT the baby), I was relieved. I had constipation problems throughout the following weekend. Monday evening, there was something new on the toilet paper when I wiped (I always checked the toilet paper). A very, very small amount of brown mucous. I thought it was hemorrhoid-related and tried to put it out of my mind. But on Tuesday, this problem continued. I consulted my Mayo Clinic book, which is very comprehensive, but I couldn't find anything specifically about brown spotting at 12 weeks. The best I could come up with was that brown means old blood, so maybe this was leftover from my pap smear or intercourse or something. But I couldn't stop the bad thoughts from rushing in all around me. I felt numb as I considered the possibility that the baby was in danger. I started to cry, knowing I would call the doctor the next day and there was a strong possibility I would be told that everything was NOT okay and nothing could be done. Erich comforted me and resisted thinking the worst, but I know he was very worried as well.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008. The Cantor was out of town, so I played organ for school chapel in the morning, followed closely by midweek Lenten Matins. After matins, I had about two hours until I had to teach choir. I called my doctor's office. On hold as usual. I didn't know whether to talk to a nurse or schedule an appointment, so I stayed on the line and got to the office staff. They couldn't tell me what to do, so transferred me to a triage nurse. More sitting on hold. They play Enya on their hold music. The nurse finally picked up.

Me: "Hi, I'm scheduled to come in for my next prenatal appointment next week, but I don't know if I should come in sooner because I've had a small amount of brown spotting and--"
Nurse: "UH OH! Did you have intercourse recently?"
Me: (thinking) "Um, no, not really recently."
Nurse: [asks my name, what kind of insurance I have, puts me on hold] "Where are you right now?
Me: "I'm at my workplace, my church."
Nurse: "Are you close by, can you come in now?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm about ten minutes away..."
Nurse: "Start drinking water, don't empty your bladder until you've had an ultrasound. Come now!"

I hung up and barely kept myself from dissolving. I had my almost-full one-liter bottle of water that I started drinking as I picked up my phone again to call Erich. I barely squeaked out the words, "They're having me come in for an ultrasound! I'M SCARED!" I couldn't stay on the phone long because I had to drink water while I drove to the office. I got there in less than ten minutes, and the water was almost gone. I went in, told them I was there for an ultrasound; they knew who I was without me having to say my name. I had to wait a few minutes in the waiting area. My heart was pounding in my ears. I thought to myself, "It's not good for the baby to be so stressed out!" A darker, strengthening voice interceded, "If the baby's even alive." I waited as a very pregnant lady walked in, also for an ultrasound. She looked full-term. The dark voice in my head told me that wouldn't be me. This was the end of the road. But I couldn't yet believe it was over until a doctor told me so.

The ultrasound technician escorted me back to the room and asked how I was doing. "A little nervous!" I said. "Of course, stupid question!" she replied sympathetically. I got up on the table, she squirted the gel on my abdomen and started the ultrasound. I watched the screen. The technician remained silent. I saw the baby; it looked like the last ultrasound, but more opaque. And I knew deep down that it wasn't moving. But I wouldn't let myself think. "I think I'll do an internal.... Yes, an internal will get me a closer look. Go empty your bladder and come back in." I didn't need an internal ultrasound at 9 weeks. If I were going to be reassured, it would have happened by now. When I came back in the room, she had changed the angle of the screen so that it would be difficult for me to see it; I no longer wanted to look anyway. The internal seemed to last forever as she tried different angles. At one point, she turned on the sound, and I knew that's where a heartbeat should be--but there was only silence. All I could do was tremble. "Is it bad?" I asked. "Dr. D will talk to you. I'm sorry, but I'm not really allowed to say anything," and she patted me on the arm. The only reason I could hold myself together is that no one had actually told me it didn't look good. But I saw the screen just as she flipped it off: "9w0d."

I was escorted to Dr. D's office and left in there alone for what felt like forever but was probably only about three minutes. As I wept, I played over and over in my head the doctor coming in and saying, "It doesn't look good." I thought there still might be hope that things were okay, but really, I already knew. "It doesn't look good." "It doesn't look good."

Soon enough, the door opened, and the doctor walked in and sat on the edge of her desk, close to me. I could barely make eye contact as I heard her say, "It doesn't look good." And I finally fell apart. She told me 15% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage, and it doesn't increase my risk of having another one. But that couldn't bring my baby back. I said we had heard the heartbeat, and she said it's very rare to lose a baby after hearing the heartbeat. I asked what happens next, and she told me I'd schedule a D&C. I didn't know if I'd want to do that. It's hard to go from thinking you're pregnant to talking about having the "products of conception" scraped out of you within half an hour. She told me it's up to me. I asked how soon we could try again, she said one month after D&C. I whined that we had just told all our friends. She tried to comfort me. But she had to go. She handed me a brochure for a grief support group and the calling card of their office manager who schedules surgical procedures. She told me I could stay as long as I liked and didn't have to stop at the desk on my way out.

I couldn't move. I was paralyzed and numb. I sobbed. But I had to call Erich, and I had left my phone in my car. And there was nothing else I could do. I collected myself as well as I could, silently escaped to my car, and picked up my phone.

"Erich? We lost the baby. Can you come home?"