Square One

I'm just overwhelmed by all of your wonderful, comforting comments. Really, thank you so much.

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**This might be kinda graphic. Just warning you.**

Pregnant, not pregnant, pregnant, not pregnant. I'm not a drama whore, honestly.

I spotted early in this pregnancy, which sent me to the emergency room to have the bad ultrasound, which led me to believe that I had a blighted ovum. So naturally, when I started spotting again on Monday afternoon, I chose to ignore it, even though this time I bled through my panties onto my pants. 24 hours later, still ignoring it, but Tom was getting more concerned. I just didn't want to spend another six hours in the emergency room and get another hamfisted ultrasound. I mean, really! After dinner, I started seeing these tiny, little clots and 30 minutes later when I went to check again, I had bled into the toilet. We left for the hospital and by the time we had gotten there, I was bleeding very heavily. We tried to go to L & D this time, but they turned us away because I was less than 20 weeks pregnant. That's the second time that I've been to that front desk, bleeding like crazy and they treated me like shit.

We walked the long way around to the emergency room, right past the NICU. Just in case I wasn't feeling bad enough, that was another kick to the stomach. When we finally arrived at the emergency room, they checked me in pretty quickly and put me in a room, thank goodness. As I was changing into the gown, blood was running down my legs and pooling on the floor. I think that this would be tramatic for anyone, I'm definately not denying that, but this is how I lost Nate. In a spectacular bloody mess. This was just too much, just too fucking much.

The emergency room doctor walked in, saw the blood on the floor and said, "Uh-Oh!" In a voice that was a little too sing-songy for my comfort. I think that he realized that he was being an asshat, especially when he asked what the outcome of my first pregnancy was.

After a pelvic exam and a blood draw, I was taken to ultrasound again. This time the bad news was delivered by the OB on call instead of the asshat ER doc. I think that I scared him off. The result was as expected, no hearbeat and no growth. He recommended a D & C. I told the doctor that because of my past experience with ER ultrasounds, I'd like to wait until the morning to have an OB ultrasound, thank you very much. But as soon as I stood up, I knew that I couldn't go home. There was too much blood and too many clots, and honestly, I was scared to death to pull down my pants and see for myself was was happening. I knew that there was no way that this pregnancy was viable at this point. I was faint and crampy. The pressure in my lower abdomen was horrible--another bad memory of Nate's birth. I had to have a D & C. So I did.

I told my Mom yesterday that I just can't put how I'm feeling into a word. It changes hourly, almost by the minute. Part of me is relieved. I didn't feel good about this pregnancy since conception, almost. I just had this terrible feeling that I would either miscarry or there would be something wrong with this child. I just knew. I had to talk myself into feeling pregnant with this one, and as much I heard that every pregnancy was different, I just couldn't shake the bad feeling that I had about never being sick. I never felt pregnant and yet my belly kept growing.

I feel old. Beat up. Tired. I feel like one of those pioneer women in old pictures, where they are only 30 but look 70. I don't recognize myself anymore and I don't know who I am anymore. I can't keep doing this. My heart hurts. So badly.

According to when I'm positive that I conceived, I was about 11 or 12 weeks pregnant. I was just getting my maternity clothes back out, and on the day that I miscarried I had finally gotten up the nerve to wear the cute, little top that I had bought in Paris. It was pink and said "fruit de passion" across the belly. I didn't feel so cute when I had to wear that shirt home from the hospital. I felt like a failure. Stupid people have babies every day. I mean, my god, Britney had her baby the same day I miscarried. Where is the fucking justice in any of this?! What did I do, anyway? And if there was a point to be made, I got it with the first one, okay?

So now I'm just playing with my new sewing machine--I've graduated from dog bandanas to cloth napkins. Still working on sewing a straight line, that's hard. I'm also making cupcakes today and playing with my new Pampered Chef toys that arrived yesterday. Neeto. Just playing with my new toys and feeling sorry for myself. You know, through all of this I've been imagining that I'm the heroine in a movie or a book. And I'm rooting so hard for this heroine, and I just know that there has got to be a happy ending to this story. There's just got to be.