So I’m 7 weeks pregnant and I go to the bathroom at work for a routine pee, which, those of you who have been pregnant before will remember, is like every 10 minutes. As I was finishing I looked down. Upon seeing a toilet full of red I just about jumped out of my skin and my first thought was “Gross! Some woman at work had her period and forgot to flush! EEUUWW! Why do people have to be so nasty?! I can’t believe I missed that when I came in!” (yep, when in doubt, blame someone else)
And then the second thought was “Wait a minute, how could I have missed that when I came in. Maybe it wasn’t already there. Maybe it’s…. me?” It was me.
Allow me to start from the beginning. On Friday, January 22, I tested positive for pregnancy. On Monday, January 25, I tested positive a second time. This was somewhat, but not much, of a surprise. We hadn’t been actively trying to conceive the way we were when trying for SchmoopyBaby. We were merely being what I like to call “consciously careless”.
So why didn’t I tell anyone? I felt good. More than that, I felt great. I felt FANTASTIC! I felt too good to be true. Anyone that’s known me for more than a couple of years knows how much I hated being pregnant with SchmoopyBaby. So sick I want to die – that’s the feeling I associate with a healthy pregnancy. This feeling great business – I didn’t trust it. So I kind of had it in the forefront of my mind that this pregnancy could very well end in miscarriage. That is why, after over a week, we told no one but our immediate families.
After the bathroom incident I called my doctor’s office. They had me come in for a blood test and then told me I’d need to come back in 2 days for a follow up blood test. My first results were not good. My hormone levels were lower than they should be for a healthy, viable pregnancy. The writing was on the wall. Of course, I hadn’t stopped bleeding the entire time, so it was completely obvious to me what was happening.
I got official confirmation from my doctor’s office this morning. My hCG level on Monday was 238. On Wednesday it was 61. I called John to let him know the news, and then I broke down. I made a quick dash to the bathroom so no one at the office would see or hear me cry. I don’t know why that phone call affected me so strongly when I already knew I had miscarried. I already knew, I had already accepted, I had already made peace and moved on. There is something about hearing an official diagnosis that somehow makes it more, I don’t know, real, concrete, official.
So why am I sharing this bad news now? I’m sad. I both want to talk about it and don’t want to talk about it, which is why I’m sharing it in the form of a written story. I know it’s very impersonal, but calling everyone I’m close to and telling everyone and talking about it and rehashing it multiple times is not something I am particularly up for at the moment.
Even though I am sad now, I will be fine. Like I said, I was kind of psychologically preparing myself for this possibility, and have more or less made peace with it. Everything happens for a reason, this was just not the right time. SchmoopyBaby still needs me, and I’m not really ready to make him share me yet. He’s not 100% weaned and I was really hoping to have him weaned before I got pregnant again. This takes off the pressure of trying to wean him by some deadline before he’s really ready. I know several women who have tandem breastfed - more power to them, but I know my limits and that is one of them. I can nurse one child at a time, I don’t want to nurse two. Let’s face it, we weren’t really ready quite yet for #2.
Do you love the way I rationalize away any negative feelings? What? I’m a Virgo, that’s what we do.
So no more being careless for me. Next time (and yes, I’m reasonably sure there will be a next time) all necessary precautions will be taken until we are sure we are ready. I’ll eat better, take vitamins more regularly, all that good stuff that creates a healthy baby-making environment. Until then, I appreciate any happy thoughts you care to send my way.