Ok so after two weeks of boob grabbing and Scandal marathoning Monday morning finally came!
My office called, I, of course ignored. I never answer my phone in general, I always do what every extroverted introvert does and wait for the voicemail that assures me I will be able to appropriately contribute to the conversation. I wait to be alone with plenty of space to roam as I have really normal conversations with people I talk to every day. I hate phone talking, I’m bad at it.
We waited until we were both home, on our couch, with our speakerphone… whiskey for if it was bad and nothing planned for if it was good, good doesn’t really need a plan.
I called my coordinator “Hi, it’s Shea” I said, literally cringing with my sweaty palms.
“Hey Shea… Shea, YOU ARE PREGNANT!”
Before I could even comprehend what she had just said Derek was on his feet screaming, so I did what I do best and just started crying. She kept talking but he just yelled and I just cried and our 5 pound dog just ran around barking and hiding in horror. I could’t really pull it together, but I did hear her say, keep taking your meds and we’ll talk in a couple of days.
Good doesn’t need a plan, good is just good. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves. Derek frantically ran to the store to buy a pregnancy test, we had never seen a positive, so we did that. Which, I might add, was pretty anti-climactic. Then we decided to go on a good news tour. We had sweet texts pouring in all day hoping and praying with us and for us. After 3 years of NO, a text just didn’t seem right to share the very best YES. So we spent the whole afternoon and evening face-timing, calling and showing up at people’s houses with the very best news.
I felt like Santa delivering cheer and good things. After years of inviting people into our sadness I got to be like Oprah during her favorite things epidsodes… “You get a grand-baby and you get a niece, everybody gets a Poe baby!!” I got to give big pretty packages of joy and goodness.
The next day my doctor called me, probably to make sure he didn’t need to send someone over with all the yelling and crying. He told me my HcG (baby hormone) was high and gave me a tentative due date of October 31st… Halloween! I mean, that’s the most perfect due date for any infertile ever after the horrors you’ve endured.
I was pregnant, after 3 years (to the month), I was finally pregnant. We were shocked!
We were shocked on Monday with the best news. We were even more shocked on Wednesday with the worst.
I sent my hubby to work and went in for my second blood test. I was working (and devouring all the baby things I never let myself lust after on the entire internet) when my doctors office called.
“Hey Shea… I got your lab work back from you blood work today…”
I knew. I knew right then. There was no excitement or baby joy in her voice…
“It’s not good. Your HcG is supposed to at least double and yours dropped dramatically indicating the first signs of a miscarriage”
I couldn’t breathe or cry or think…I couldn’t speak. I muttered an “okay, thanks” and hung up the phone.
I moved to the floor and just sat there. “I was pregnant and now I’m not” …It was on repeat in my head. It was all I could hear or think. My husband was an hour away at a meeting and kept texting,
“Did you hear from the office? I bet it’s twins!”
“Babe?”
“Babe, have you heard from the office?”
I texted him and said we would talk when we got home, but he knew too. He knew right then. We have an incredible friend/boss that rushed him home and we spent the whole afternoon crying and holding each other.
Everything had felt so different two days before. Going to bed felt different, eating felt different, just being alive felt different thinking there was a little babe (or babes) growing in there. The days after were a blur, and everything felt different all over again in the very worst way. I stopped taking my meds as my doctors had instructed and a week later my worst fear came to fruition. It was really over.
I feel as paralyzed today as I did 5 weeks ago. I don’t know what to do. I wish I could go back to Monday. To the weightlessness of thinking all of this was finally over, at least for a while. It’s hard not to torture myself every Friday thinking how many weeks I would be or what mile-marker we would be approaching.
We’ve been loved so, so well. But no words or gestures or hugs or love can ease my heartache.
We finally got to talk to my doctor and he couldn’t give a reason for it all. He said his best guess is that it wasn’t a healthy embryo or pregnancy. He also talked over a plan for our next transfer, we have 3 embryos left, but I just couldn’t.
I’m tired. My body is tired, and big. The last 3 years have been devoted to surgeries and meds and hormones and bad skin and extra weight and an emotional roller coaster and I’m just tired.
I’m a quitter. I’ve never done a push-up because when it gets hard I just lay facedown on the mat and repeat, usually out loud, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” It’s hard for me to know if God is teaching me to dig in, keep pushing, don’t quit and move towards another transfer or if He is guiding us in a new direction for a while.
It’s hard to hurt, it’s hard to watch my husband hurt, and our parents and our friends.
It’s hard for me to put my big girl pants on and keep moving while at the same time grieving our loss.
It’s hard to believe God is just as good today as he was on Monday 5 weeks ago.
It’s hard to believe He is the author of life and won’t give it to me and at the same time He is my comforter and healer.
It’s just hard and there’s a chance everything is vodka
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