Thank you for all the kindness and well-wishes – very, very much appreciated.
My ultrasound last week had been scheduled with the high-risk OB’s nurse midwife. In a very large practice of 10+ physicians and lots of NPs, it just happened that she was the one with an open appointment that day. I am so, so incredibly glad that it worked out that way. When the ultrasound tech didn’t see an embryo/fetus anywhere, the high-risk OB himself – the man that got us through the absolute sh*t show of my pregnancy with and delivered E, who I trust totally – came in to give me the final word (and performed my D&C the next day). I appreciated that immensely. Not getting bad news from a stranger or someone who didn’t know my history made such a difference, especially since, thanks to Covid-19, I was by myself at the ultrasound.
The D&C was definitely the right option for me in this particular circumstance. The pregnancy symptoms are, thankfully, abating. It’s a particular bit of insult to injury to have breast pain so bad that it was waking me up at night – including the night before surgery – when there’s no actual baby to justify the discomfort. That was one of the more frustrating parts of the whole situation: my symptoms were really major this time, more so than with any of the previous four pregnancies. I sort of assumed that symptoms were an encouraging sign, but apparently not in this case.
A friend brought us a meal afterwards. I actually cried because I was grateful – it was SO nice and so incredibly welcome since we got home from the hospital around 5:30 and none of the adults were up to making anything.
I’m struggling a bit to hold the dual realities that I don’t want another pregnancy and also I want to be pregnant right now. The idea of going through the two week wait(s), seeing the two lines, beta HCG draws, the first ultrasound, the waiting through anatomy scans, viability, praying to get to term – provided I got to any of those points at all – makes me feel vaguely nauseated. I just don’t have anything left of whatever propelled me through all the other fertility misadventures. At the same time, I want desperately to be holding an ultrasound picture of an 8-week baby and awaiting the next ultrasound with nervous anticipation. I want to be looking forward to my due date in March, sourcing a low-cost maternity wardrobe and waiting for those kicks.
Basically, I don’t want a replacement. I want this specific pregnancy except that I want it to work out with a healthy baby at the end.
That’s an impossibility and it aches.
Moving on is the one thing I actually have some mild optimism about in the better moments – it will take time (probably a lot more than I’d like it to) and some days will feel impossible but that it will happen. We’ll work on getting rid of the baby stuff still in the basement, finishing up a few projects to really make our spare room the craft/study/music area for the girls, and…birth control.
We know we’re going the permanent route at some future point, but with Covid-19, some insurance realities, and still reeling emotionally from this experience, it’s just not good timing to go through that process immediately. I set up my follow-up visit slightly further out than usual to allow my uterus to heal so we can look at the full range of effective non-permanent options out there to hold in the meantime. The last thing we need right now is “surprise!” Which feels incredibly weird after nearly a decade of trying to get pregnant, wanting to be pregnant, and desperately hoping for (or at least being open to) a pregnancy.
It’s time, though.