"Well, I mean you have four children, you are blessed," said the nurse patting my arm in an attempt to comfort me.
I was in a post-anesthesia fog, my eyes were almost swollen shut from crying so much, but I nodded. "I know, I know, I am blessed," I agreed. I tucked my legs up underneath my chin like a child and closed my eyes.
Then she put a blanket around me, one of those blankets that felt like it had been in a toaster--a little stiff, but warm. She tucked the edges under my side, leaving her hand on my hip for a minute. "You all alone?," she asked concerned.
"Yes," I said, feeling more alone than possibly ever before.
********
It all started almost two months ago. I wasn't feeling like myself. Tim and I were concerned, but not overly concerned and we never considered that I might be pregnant. Then I took a nap, or rather the nap took me. I couldn't stop it, I sat down on the couch to watch a movie and I slept and slept and slept. And here's the thing, I hate napping. I don't nap. Unless I am pregnant. Tim went out and bought a pregnancy test the next day.
Still not believing I could possibly be pregnant, I peed on the stick and two lines appeared. Two lines mean pregnant.
"Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck," I said over and over and over. I was like Leonardo DiCaprio in the movie about Howard Hughes, The Aviator, where he goes crazy and can't stop saying the same thing over and over. I clasped my hand over my mouth just like he did in the movie and still the "holy fucks" kept coming. I was seconds away from taping my mouth shut like Leo did, but then Tim opened the door to the bathroom and grabbed me and I stopped. I started crying instead.
"How did this happen?" he asked.
"Well Tim, we're finally the fucking one percent, just not the one percent everyone wants," I half screamed. "Nope, we're the one percent that's mentioned on the warning label on the back of the Trojan box, you know the one percent that can get pregnant using a condom! We're like a god damn After-School Special for old people."
I cried more.
We were done having kids. Four was our number. Four kids are what we dreamed about when we were dating. Five? We never talked about five.
I was scared. Scared of being too old. Scared of not having enough money or enough love. Scared of the emotional toll it would take on me and how I wouldn't be able to be the mother I wanted to the original four. Scared it would make our marriage harder, life harder. Then I hated myself for feeling all of these feelings. And I cried more.
Then I wiped my tears away and made dinner for the family. Life went on.
It was actually Tim's birthday, so we sang and had cake and carried on just like normal. But Tim and I knew everything was different.
Over the next few weeks, the nausea and exhaustion became extreme. I could barely make it through every day. I stopped taking the kids to the pool, there were no family bike rides, no spontaneous nature hikes. There was a lot of eating, laying around and just getting through. I didn't feel like talking or writing or dancing. I didn't even feel like crying or being angry. I didn't feel--there was just being tired and sick.
Then one morning I woke up and I didn't have to throw up. I felt happy. I looked at my four kids and felt even happier. "Why not?" I thought. "Why not add to my sweet family?" More love, that's the way I started to see the pregnancy. I touched my already growing stomach lightly, lovingly and for the first time thought, maybe...maybe we, I, could do this.
We didn't tell the kids or the world. I went to the doctor, got blood tests and scheduled my ultrasound. It was becoming very real, but we still wanted to wait. We'd never really waited before to tell people about being pregnant. But this time, the kids were older and we wanted to tell them first. And we wanted to be in the "safe period" and let them get situated in their new year of school before telling them. But those weren't the only reasons.
I was scared again. Scared of what people would think. Scared of people judging. Scared of being the butt of the joke, the old lady that lived in the shoe kind of thing. You know, so many kids she didn't know what to do. I wanted to wait until I didn't apologize to strangers for getting pregnant. Then I hated myself for feeling all these feelings and I cried.
Despite the irrational fears and horomonally-fueled anxiety, I started to get excited. I thought about names. I made a secret Pinterest board full of bassinets and maternity clothes. I dreamed up blog posts about our family of seven. I smiled thinking about how I would stand out in the blogging world since I would be one of very few uber-liberal, non-homeschooling mommy bloggers with five children. I started laughing more and panicking less.
Then a few days ago I didn't feel right. I started cramping and bleeding. In that same bathroom where I said "holy fuck" 5,679 times in a row upon seeing the two lines and prayed to God that it wasn't true, I prayed again. "Please God, don't let this happen," I pleaded out loud, but in a whisper.
I called my doctor and in a hushed voice so the kids couldn't hear, I asked her for help. She told me to head to the emergency room. I told the kids I had to go to the hospital just to get my stomachache checked out. I lined up a drop-in child care center to watch the younger three kids and left Peyton home alone. "Hey, maybe when you get to the hospital, they'll find out you're actually going to have another baby, wouldn't that be great?" said Peyton reassuringly with a smile as I walked out the door.
"What can I do for you?," asked the kind-looking, older security guard at the entrance of the hospital's emergency room.
"I'm having a miscarriage and I need help," I stated. The words felt strange coming out of my mouth. I hadn't even told people I was pregnant and here I was telling a complete stranger that I was miscarrying. It was all personal and sad and uncomfortable.
It felt like I said and heard that word 451 more times in the next six hours. "Miscarriage Behind Curtain 6" was my new name. Tests had to be run. There was a system, a protocol that had to be followed. Even though we all knew what was happening.
Not long after I got settled behind my curtain, Tim showed up and held my hand and was by my side.
The dark ultrasound room was possibly the lowest point of the day. The only sounds were the whirring of the air conditioning coming from the vent, the clicks of the computer from the somber ultrasound tech and my sniffling. I am used to ultrasounds where the tech says "see your baby?" and then writes fun quotes like "can't wait to meet you!" on the picture to take home. This time after the ultrasound, there was no picture. She handed me a box of tissues and left the dark room to "give us some time." Tim was there holding my hand still. It was heavy and sad.
But it wasn't officially a miscarriage until my doctor, who was in the hospital performing a C-section, came and gave me the news. I love my doctor and I am forever grateful that she is the one that told me finally what I had known/feared since praying in my bathroom that morning.
I was wheeled to the operating room almost immediately for a D & C. It was all happening very fast now. IVs, anesthesia, papers to sign, different nurses, different beds, different rooms. It was surreal. It was all fluorescent lights and nurse buttons and beds with wheels. It was like a movie and I was just lying in the bed watching it all happen.
Tim had a job interview that he was supposed to go to at 4 p.m. He decided to cancel it, but before I went in for surgery I made him promise he would go. My amazing doctor offered to drive me home after she was done with her shift later that night(see why I love her?). But Tim said he could be back by 6:30 and the hospital agreed to keep me until then. I felt better knowing he was going as they injected my IV to put me to sleep.
After I woke up and they unwired me from IVS and blood pressure machines, I was wheeled into a cubicle looking space with a recliner. There was no one in the room, no one. I heard faraway voices confirming appointments and deliveries, but saw no one.
********
After the nurse asked if I was alone, I felt a little sorry for myself.
But then I just sat still. And fell in and out of sleep. I stared at the ceiling and listened to nothing. I felt peace. I knew the moment I left the plastic-y, leather-y recliner and the warm toasted blankets life would go on--meals would need to be made, kids would need to be cared for, school supplies would need to be bought, work would need to be done. So I sank into the peace and quiet of the moment. I surrendered to the surreality of the whole day. I honored my grief and my confusion.
When we got home I told the kids my stomach was better, but I needed to take it easy. We are not telling them anymore than that.
I am sure the surreality and the grief will continue, but so will the healing.
The next morning I woke up thinking it was all a dream, but then remembering it wasn't. And then I made gluten free waffles and we all ate breakfast on the front porch. Life goes on. We carried on, just like normal, but Tim and I know everything is different.
