On the bright side, it is much easier to say "chemical pregnancy" out loud than to share its more descriptive meaning: a miscarriage occurring before 5-6 weeks of pregnancy. Most women do not even realize that they are having a miscarriage when this occurs. It is far less painful and traumatizing than a miscarriage later on in pregnancy. In most cases, a chemical pregnancy does not even warrant a trip to the doctor.
I read all of this information via "Dr. Google" on Sunday morning. By that time I had known I was pregnant for a full week. I had taken a test before leaving for church the previous Sunday and was happily surprised when I saw a faint line. Later that day and throughout the week, it was confirmed with more definite tests. We were going to have baby #3. We joked this would be our tie-breaker baby, tipping the scales for the girls or the boys. We squabbled playfully over names. We told a few friends and I ordered a shirt for our youngest that said "this boy is being promoted to middle child."
Now I know what you are thinking. It was way too early to do all of those things. But after two successful and totally uneventful pregnancies, you come to expect the routine. I wouldn't say we got cocky, we just felt safe. Like, here we go again. We never expected it to end. Except, I sort of did. I had already let go of hoping to get pregnant last month. So when I saw the lines, I was totally shocked. As I sat in church that morning, I felt a little crampy, but I prayed and prayed for that little nugget to stick. I obsessively checked and checked to see if I was "still pregnant." I just had this nagging feeling that it wasn't going to happen. But with each day, I felt a little better, a little more sure. On Friday, I even called the Dr. The receptionist and I joked because it was so early. I told her I knew you had to call early to get the good appointments. She thanked me.
So when it all went away on Easter morning, it was devastating. I know it was only a week. There will undoubtedly be someone who reads this and thinks, "Big deal. I lost a baby at 10 weeks," or "I had to have a D&C" or worse someone who had a stillborn child. Or someone who lost a child after they were born. Let me just say I know I am so lucky. I am so lucky that God knew there was something amiss with our little one and stopped it before we really got started. I am lucky I have had no pain, no trips to the Dr. except for bloodwork to confirm our loss. But it still hurts. It hurts because over that week I came to believe it was real. I thought we were getting our third and possibly last miracle. And honestly, it hurts because it feels like it shouldn't hurt. There is a degree of shame that I am mourning the loss of a cluster or cells. With all the loss and pain and horribleness in the world, it feels selfish and maybe even silly to mourn something that most women wouldn't even know about.
These are the thoughts I had on Sunday as I quietly sobbed in the bathroom in between dressing my two beautiful, healthy children and hiding eggs for them in the yard. (My poor husband had the nastiest stomach flu, so I couldn't even hole up in bed and hide like I wanted to.) We missed church, but my daughter wanted so badly to wear the dress she picked out. And I really wanted to smile and feel ok. I wanted to focus on something other than what was going on with my body.
In the days since, I have tried to do what the experts suggest and give myself permission to grieve. That is probably the hardest thing to do. I gave our lost cluster of cells a unisex name. I have to go in tomorrow to get more blood drawn to make sure that the levels are dropping, and after that I feel like I will have closure on this whole event. I give thanks to God for making the decision his and for bearing that burden for us. And I will continue to pray and wait for our "rainbow baby." But if I could tell our baby one thing, it would be that you were wanted. You were so very wanted.
-E
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