Bad News

How many pregnancies have you had, the ultrasound tech asked me. This is my third, I sobbed. Any live births, she asked? Yes, we have a two-year-old.

I figured that was a bad sign. I heard it from the allergist after my last miscarriage: well, at least you have one child. And it's true. At least I do. But it's a weird thing to say when someone is clearly distraught. She wasn't as nice as Annie.

But I was still stunned to read the ultrasound report afterwords that included the words incomplete miscarriage and fetal demise. Fetal demise. Dead baby. Dead embryo. Dead promises and dead hopes and incomplete dreams. Dead due dates and trimesters and morning sickness. Dead.

We went in because I spotted the teensiest of teensy amounts this morning. Old blood. Likely due to some uh, recent activity with my husband. We got into the appointment, I showed her my underwear, and felt like I was being ridiculously paranoid/crazy. I apologized, but then asked if we could just get to the ultrasound part. We did. No heartbeat was found. Just like the last time we did this. We headed over to Radiology and sat in the same waiting room, me crying softly as I stared at the aqua green decor and pondered the injustice of this whole thing. Why. Why. Why. What could this possibly be teaching me?

"Sharon" wasn't as nice as Annie, like I said. I said, look we've done this before, so if the embryo is dead please show me the screen so I can bid adieu to it before it's sucked out of my body tomorrow. She did. I asked if there was a heartbeat. She said she couldn't answer. But that's when she asked me about my pregnancy history. I sobbed on Pete's shoulder as we left. Just like last time. We held hands as the doc came in and said, I'm sorry, but it looks like you miscarried again. I sobbed and sobbed. She hugged me and said we'd get through this, the three of us, because I was a fighter. I know I am. But man, my heart is broken.

I scheduled a D&C for tomorrow. I'm scheduled to take a cocktail of Valium, Vicodin and Ibuprofen before the procedure. I just couldn't do the Misoprostol again; passing the clots of my once-hopeful, now-dead embryo last fall was possibly the most horrifying thing I've ever endured in my life. I will be happily stoned tomorrow and hope that it is quick procedure.

Comments

  1. Heather...I am so so so sorry you're going through this again. You all have my deepest sympathies and I will have you in my thoughts and prayers. This has nothing to do with what you have done or didn't do. And i'm sorry you didn't have someone sensitive to break this news to you. Be strong.

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  2. I am so sorry, really my heart breaks for you. I can't say it any better then you, it is so unfair and I am sorry.

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  3. Heather, I am so very sorry for your loss. You guys are in my thoughts. Sending all the love I can to you.

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  4. Oh Heather. I'm so, so sorry. Love you!

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  5. I'm so sorry. This is really painful to read, we're all crying for you here. We love you and are so sorry you're all going through this.

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  6. Oh Heather. This is so unfair. Awful. I am so very sad for you all.

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  7. Lots of hugs and love to you all.

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  8. Thank you so much. I'm sorry I'm late in commenting back. Thanks for the love and support.

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