The Bad Ultrasound

I feel like a very unsteady wagon, passively pulled along. But the wheels are about to fall off. At the beginning of the coldest week in ten years. Awesome.

From the day we found out we lost our Vector (baby #2's nickname, long story), I made it my policy not to be strong for anyone. The only way to get through the grieving process is to get through it, cry when I feel like it, all the sooner to feel normal again. But grief appears on its own time. I was extremely sad at first and then I floated along, comfortably numb. But today, for whatever reason, I'm riddled with anxiety, unwilling to face the day, the week. What is the reward for persisting through each day? I'm having a hard time seeing it.

I must continue my policy. I have to continue to face this second loss, or I'll never be able to face another venture into the land of TTC. I can't ever be happy to become pregnant if this blighted ovum becomes merely a vague fear, an expectation of disappointment. This is a sad post, but it's my therapy. Read if you want; it's mainly for me.


We were finally home. It was Monday morning, and we had been in Michigan the preceding weekend, celebrating Christmas with the two sides of my extended family. We intended to be home Sunday night, but a horrible snow storm had us seeking refuge in NW Indiana at Erich's aunt and uncle's house. Early in the morning, we got up and drove the remaining 90 minutes home, glad to do it in the daylight. We had a few hours at home to unpack and shower, then we went off to the scheduled ultrasound, the one I hoped would confirm my own dating of the pregnancy: 9w1d.

Perhaps it was the significance of that date--the fact that Keiki was 9w1d when we saw the heartbeat--or the fact that we had finally started to tell people over the weekend, sharing our joys and nerves that made me very nervous for this ultrasound. The first appointment the week before had served to make me very excited, but the low progesterone issue shook me and I was half expecting bad news.

We had to wait for about 10 minutes before we were called back. The nervousness continued. The tech finally led us to the room, the same tech I had at my other two ultrasounds, the first one good, the second one bad. She asked if I'd had any spotting. Nope! She looked at my chart and said I should be around 11 weeks. I told her that I'm a late ovulator and was looking for nine. Okay then!

She blooped the gel onto my lower abdomen and pressed heavily on my very full bladder as my heart raced. My uterus came into view. It appeared pregnant to me, but we could not see a baby. No comfort had yet arrived. The tech zoomed in a little then asked: "Would six weeks make sense?" And my heart stopped. No. "NO!" I wailed, panicking. It was over, all over. My head started reeling as I heard her say that she could see a sac but that it looked tiny, tiny. No. No. NO.

Then my second least favorite statement, given my history: "I'm going to do an internal." I sat up and looked at Erich, who looked confused but hopeful. It wasn't quite over for him yet, which would be a normal, hopeful person's response. My hope was gone; reality had already crushed me. I left the room, crossed the hall and emptied my bladder, feeling there was no point. I went back in, and the tech left to give me a chance to undress my lower half. I sobbed and sobbed while Erich stayed by my side. "I'm not doing this again, I can't do this again," I kept saying. The tech came back in and was very sweet. She did the internal ultrasound and I didn't even bother to look at the screen. I knew Erich was looking, getting his conclusive proof that hope was gone. She didn't say much else--I know she's not allowed to, but it was clear to her that I already knew what she wasn't allowed to say. This was bad.

She kindly patted me on the knee one more time before she left to see if she could get a doctor to talk to us. We were escorted to Dr. D and Dr. J's office to wait for one of them to come in. I was so, so glad Erich was with me this time. We comforted each other, and I think we were trying to figure out if and when I should have a D&C, given this was three days before Christmas. Dr. D came in. Last time she gave me the platitudes and didn't have much to say, but this was loss #2, time to get down to business and figure this out. I asked some questions as she scrutinized my chart. She was looking for answers, and I appreciated that. We didn't leave with any conclusions, but the point we seemed to be hurtling toward is that my first loss was almost certainly due to the septum; this second loss was earlier and not consistent with any leftover septum or anything. Therefore, they were unrelated and bad luck. I asked if my very long cycles could have anything to do with it, and she was unable to answer.

Numb, sad, and disappointed. We cycled through those three throughout the day, taking turns comforting each other. Disappointed that we never got to tell Erich's family we were expecting, disappointed that we won't have a summer baby, or perhaps any baby in 2009. Sad to have lost another baby, sad to be that sad couple that everyone feels bad for, sad to be missing out on a joyful Christmas holiday. And numb when it all got to be too much.

The more we talked, the more I realized it would be better to get the D&C over with. How nice that I never started bleeding on my own. I felt relieved to be able to schedule it for the next day, even though that meant asking the other organist to cover the Christmas services I was supposed to play. I still regret not getting to play organ this Christmas, but c'est la vie.

Truth be told, I'm still pretty numb a lot of the time. And depressed. I hate winter.