I heard a lot of songs last Monday, but the one that stuck out is the chain by Fleetwood Mac, the following lyric in particular:
Listen to the wind blow, down comes the night
Running in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies
Break the silence, damn the dark, damn the light
Funny how you can hear a song over and over again and sing along without paying much attention until the lyrics start to take on a whole new meaning.
The last few days have been difficult—emotionally, spiritually, physically. I had another blog post planned. A reveal. Bryan and I had cute plans to show our family and friends a secret we’d been keeping since late August when I got my first-ever positive pregnancy test. Four years of trying and all we needed was one month in Rockaway to prove the doctors wrong. The first few weeks were relatively unremarkable with normal pregnancy symptoms: sore boobs, a bloated belly, and constant fatigue. Once weeks seven and then eight slowly rolled around, everything changed. I was at a meeting last Friday when something felt off. The pain continued and I felt a stabbing sensation in my abdomen. Saturday evening, Bryan took me to the emergency room where we waited for six hours, and prayed that the bleeding would finally stop.
We listened as a man passed away two beds away from us, and then witnessed his family come in to say their last tearful goodbyes. The woman to our left complained loudly and often about how she had taken a spill leaving the Riviera Maya restaurant after two margaritas while wearing flip flops. We must have heard her story ten times, and I thought Bryan was going to lose it every time she said “flip flops.” He tried to make me smile, sweet thing, and told me everything would be okay.
I focused my attention on not bleeding all over the uncomfortable cot, a task I had assigned myself and something to help occupy my time. One urine sample, three blood pressure tests, and an ultrasound later, we weren’t much closer to having any conclusive results.
“Did I just miscarry?” I asked the attending physician.
“Well, your ultrasound still shows a pregnancy… but that could very well change,” his voice trailed off. It sounded ominous but maybe I was just too tired to compute fully. We received some paperwork and an RX and were sent home at 430 in the morning.
There was much more blood in the morning. I hoped this was a result of my monster fibroid (9cm) and became convinced that it was the culprit for the dizziness, the fatigue, the bleeding. But that nagging feeling in the back of my head persisted.
You’re losing it, Charlotte.
I knew. As I got in my car to go the doctor’s office on Monday. I knew. As I waited in the waiting room. I knew. As the technician gave me another ultrasound.
“Did I miscarry?” My voice trembled as the doctor came back into the room.
There were more words but they were just noises to fill the air. I wanted to put on my clothes and get the fuck out of there, but the technician wanted to do one more test and I still had to pay and fuck me, suddenly I was sobbing all over the place.
Finding out the news that I was pregnant filled me with more hope than I’ve had in years. I never thought this could ever happen naturally for us and I count that as a true blessing. I really do.
Now is not our time, but one day we will be parents to a peanut, and I’ll probably be obnoxious about it after all and hire a circus act and you’ll get the full update on Facebook and Instagram because we won’t have to keep that secret to ourselves again. We’ll make it past that horrible first trimester and can revel in all things pregnancy: the good, the bad, the ugly.
In the meantime, I’ll process this all slowly and learn from it as I try to do with all things in life.
But I’m human, and right now my spirit is broken and I’m so fucking sad, if I’m being completely honest.