Some days are ones you'd rather forget. Rather to have not lived it at all. If God issued "Do-overs" - I have no doubt that many other religions would happily convert in order to take away that one bad day.
Friday started off with wardrobe malfunctions where my sweater seemed to eat my neck and rub my pop-over boobs raw. And then - I started to feel - odd. I was going to pass out and I was all alone in my office. So I shakily wandered to my 7-month pregnant co-worker's office and sat in her chair. She laughingly assured me I'd be fine. And then - I lost it. I vomited in her trashcan. Repeatedly.
Harry then picked me up for lunch and held me in the floor of the bathroom while I held a hairdryer to my legs to get warm. I couldn't get warm and shook in odd convulsions.
I had a doctor's appointment that afternoon so I wasn't too concerned about calling to ask about the reappearance of my breakfast, the shakes, and the weird clammy feeling that was hitting me in intervals of every ten minutes.
We waited for two hours to get to see my doctor, who is the nicest man on earth (in scrubs) After using a hand-held device to find the baby's heartbeat the doctor had me get dressed and go across the hall to the Ultrasound rooms. Using the "vaginal probe" (I hate the word for that) he showed me my baby.
It looked no different than it did at 8 weeks.
Only this time there was no fluttering - no heartbeat.
And then - I lost it. But only internally. I managed to hold it together outwardly for all general purposes. Getting dressed, I half-listened as the doctor began talking about the procedure I was to endure. He explained it in more detail than necessary and I tried to focus on the one ceiling tile that was different than the others. It was very important to me to be strong- to not show emotion over the loss of life that had happened inside me. I tried not to think of the blame that I was lying on myself for being flippant and struggled not to question the incubating process that I thought my spic-and-span-never-had-a-single-STD-uterus would have no trouble with.
"It just didn't grow," the doctor said.
"Yeah," I said. "So when do I go have this done? Will your staff just call me after the holdiays?"
"I was thinking more like tomorrow. There are risks...." he went on to explain the bleeding-out process - and then - I lost it.
Two prescriptions and more tears than I ever thought possible, and all washed down with a caffeinated Pepsi (why not?), I woke at four a.m. to head to the Outpatient Center at the local hospital. Four hours later and I was sore, emotional and no longer going to be someone's mom.
I can't even begin to tell the torment of the last day and a half. My body was revolting against the no-longer-there-baby and was therefore making me sick and dizzy. I knew, in a way, that it wasn't going to happen. I knew, too, that if I were a crackwhore or a meth addict that I would have no problem carrying full term. It's just another lesson of "life isn't fair."
For now, I'm taking some time to heal, in more ways than one, but probably won't be online much for a bit. I have truly enjoyed all the well-wishing from my online friends and know that I appreciate it all in more ways than you'll ever know. So have a Merry Christmas and - even though I'm not the most religious person on earth - a few spare prayers in my direction wouldn't hurt.
