Yesterday was such a beautiful, warm, amazing day. The sun was shining and I spent the day watching my children blow bubbles, giggle, and play. Amy came to visit with her 2 kiddos and we had a nice lunch together. Girl time is good for the soul.

Jeremy came home around naptime so that I could go to my OB appointment solo, minus the chaos of toddlers. That was for the better because they ended up doing an exam and blood work. The exam went smoothly and my uterus was already poking it’s happy little head out above my pubic bone– perfect measurement for 11 weeks along. I was utterly nauseated during the visit, a symptom the doctor was happy to hear about. We tried to hear the heartbeat externally but it wasn’t picking anything up. So they sent me to the ultrasound room for my first ultrasound– to see the little butter bean dancing around, and to watch his little heart flutter.

The baby had no heartbeat. He measured 9 weeks instead of 11.

On my way home from the hospital, I stopped at the quickstop. I just wanted some cigarettes. After 4 years of being tobacco free, I just wanted a cigarette. Instead of buying a pack, I sat in the car and cried like I haven’t cried in years. I cried outloud, with people watching, and I didn’t care. I cried to God, I cried to my momma, I cried for that little soul lost. I cried an ugly cry; you know the kind: the kind that is so deep and is coming from so far within that it takes the sound out of your voice. It’s so consuming that it swallows you. It makes you drool, makes you nauseated, makes veins pop out in places you had no idea they could. And when you are done, your eyes are so out of tears that they change shape and leave your face tired and older. And your heart and brain are numb and empty. Your spirit feels like it’s been through sensory overload and that it might never function the way it did before. This is the kind of cry that lets it all out. Years and years of needing to cry and not crying all come out in one huge. massive. soul-freeing. sob.
I got home and made the kids dinner. Life doesn’t slow down for sorrow. Kids still need to eat. They still have stinky diapers and temper tantrums. During dinner I found myself detached from their laughter and indifferent to their cries. I didn’t want anyone to hug me, or console me. I just wanted to crawl into a ball and be alone. A loss like this is something that isn’t shared. It is just the momma’s. She endures it alone. No one can share it, make it better, help it heal faster. It’s a selfish sadness.

This time was harder. The later miscarriages always are (11 weeks vs. 6 weeks– Trust me, there’s a HUGE difference). But this is only the second loss, out of seven, where I actually thought things were going wonderfully until that ultrasound told me differently. The loss is sad. But the physical part scares me.  If I don’t start passing the “products of conception” shortly, I will have to have another D&C. That, my friends, is very unpleasant. But maybe not as unpleasant as the alternative. The alternative is that I wait, at home, for this to happen “naturally”. That could take weeks. I wouldn’t leave the house for weeks out of fear that I will start this process while out somewhere in public, with my children no less. Yet I’m not excited about being put to sleep and having a complete stranger vacuum out my womb. I’m so utterly sad about the loss of my baby, but I’m terrified of the physical part of an 11 week miscarriage. There is no horror film on Earth as disturbing and haunting as this process. Some may argue that it’s natural. I argue, FUCK YOU, there’s nothing natural about this! D&C or miscarriage– this fucking sucks! “Natural” would be a healthy, sweet, chubby baby in 29 weeks. “Natural” IS NOT hemorrhaging in my bathroom or having a vacuum put to my uterus, thank you very much.

And, again, I’m sure that this all is just so much sadder and so much harder to endure spiritually, physically, and emotionally because no one is going to go it with me. I’m alone in this. It’s mine. And that’s just kind of lonely. I’ve never wished for my mom to be here more than I do when I miscarry. I know I’m tough. I know I’m strong. I know I’m going to be ok. But there’s nothing in the world like the love and comfort of your momma, when you’re a momma whose heart is just a little bit broken.

I cried enough yesterday. I’m going to embrace the love I have and be grateful. It’s as easy as that. I’ve given birth THREE magical, amazing times to THREE healthy, beautiful blessings. Five makes a family. It really, really does.

I’m going to get an IUD as soon as my sad little womb has healed. 2008 fertility (or lack of) has done a number to the old gal. But I’m finally going to just let her be done. Ten pregnancies are enough for one lifetime.

Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m a tough cookie. And I have so much to celebrate. I love my life, every aspect of it. I imagine that my losses, my mother and my 7 little “Almost Babies”, have all had a purpose. There is a plan for us that maybe I don’t understand in the moment, but God knows. And God always takes care of me, and comforts me, and blesses me. And I have Faith. That Faith got me out of bed this morning with a smile for my family,  and the strength to enjoy the sunshine with my babies, to decorate Easter eggs, to laugh and hug and be grateful. Every Day, every kiss, every little chocolate faced toddler giggle will get me closer to healed.

Monday is another ultrasound, just to see where we stand. I’ll post again when I know more about what will come. Drop a prayer for me for the passing of this pregnancy, however it ends. And thank you for being such good listeners…