Okay, deep breath.
So, it's been five months since I made the time to sit down and blog. Five months ago, I was trying to come to grips with a recent miscarriage. The news hit me like a tornado and left all of my plans for the next several months in its wake. I would no longer be welcoming a baby in late spring. I wouldn't be sharing another pregnancy journey with a good friend whose first baby was born around the same time as AJ. The tee shirt we had purchased for AJ to announce his "big brother" news would not be worn. For a girl who lives to plan, losing those plans made me feel lost.
So, I got to work. I joined a gym. I went back to weight watchers. I traveled. I made new plans. And I was sad. Because while I could focus on all of those things for a while, I was still reminded that these things shouldn't be happening. Every time I saw a pregnancy announcement on Facebook, I calculated how far along I should be. I thought about all the things I was missing out on.
And then came Christmas Eve. We were visiting my inlaws. My period was late. I packed two pregnancy tests in my suitcase. I took one. I saw two lines. I told no one. Not even my husband. I prayed that this was our Christmas miracle, while preparing myself that it could be a bad test, or leftover hormones from my miscarriage. Two days later I took another test, saw another two lines. That visit was the longest long weekend of my life. I vowed not to say a word until I confirmed the news with my doctor. So we came back to town and I snuck out to not one but two doctors appointments for bloodwork. And after all of that, the news was good. I was really pregnant. I told Karl on New Years Eve. We were in shock but overjoyed.
Our first ultrasound came in late January. We went together and were ecstatic to see a beating heart and a baby measuring 8 weeks 1 day, a day ahead of where I should have been. We were again told by my OB that once a heartbeat is seen a heard at this stage, the risk of miscarriage drops to below 1 percent. We had heard the statistic before, but this time I had awful morning sickness and truly "felt pregnant." That had to be a good sign. And really, what were the chances of us falling into that awful "less than one percent" category again?
February 22nd I called the drs office. I was having some bleeding. The nurse assured me everything was probably fine, but scheduled an ultrasound just to soothe my nerves. I called Karl to meet us at the hospital. I was alone when I found out about the miscarriage last time. I didn't want to be alone no matter what the news was this time. And so, the three of us were together in the cramped ultrasound room when the tech couldn't find the heartbeat. We were together when the OB said I would need to have surgery that week because I was too far along to miscarry on my own.
And again, I was the girl with no more plans. No sharing pregnancy with friends. No big brother shirt. No more need for Karl to build a crib. No need to rearrange the nursery to fit AJ and one on the way. No more feelings of security from statistics or symptoms. No answers.
We learned last week the baby I lost was a girl. She had a chromosomal abnormality called Turner's Syndrome and that is why I lost her. The news was so incredibly hard to hear, but comforting at the same time. I knew in my heart the baby was a girl. I didn't just lose a pregnancy. I lost my daughter.
And that sucks. Sometimes that's the only way to say it. For the last month I have lived in this place, accepting that life sucks, reading more facebook pregnancy announcements. Except this time I have two pregnancies to remember. A May due date and a September one. I don't have the swollen feet and ankles of a the third trimester. I don't have the renewed energy and excitement of the second trimester. Instead, I have two dates to remember what might have been.
I also have a plan, because a girl can only live so long in that place where the only plan is to get out of bed and make it through the day. I cried uncle and asked my doctor for some help in the antidepressant department. My body has been through the hormonal hell of the first trimester twice in the last six months. My hope is that a couple of months of drugs will help me to regain control of my emotions and get to a better place. Truth: I am not good at asking for help.
I am also returning to Weight Watchers tonight, which I expect to be a hard dose of reality. I left my regular Monday night meeting in January after announcing my news to the meeting leader and a few other people I had grown close to in the group. "I'll be back in November," I said, figuring I'd need to hop back on the wagon. It's not November, not even close, but I'm going back. I'm going back because I have been eating myself into a deep dark hole over the past four weeks. I'm going back because I need to feel like I am doing *something* even if that something isn't "growing a baby."
So, tonight I will receive my "official" starting weight and set my first weight loss goal. I'll put my plan of focusing on my health, both mental and physical, into action. I know it is going to be insanely hard work on all levels, but I think I am ready.
It's now or never, right?
So, Welcome Spring. Please be kind.