Reflecting

At times there comes a point where we have to choose how we let some great misfortune effect our ability to continue living. For some it's easier than for others. Those who were blessed with a continually sunny outlook on life seem to let these misfortunes slide right off of them like water off a duck's back. But for those -- like me -- who were most assuredly not blessed with that great attribute, these moments are more difficult.

I have been suicidal off and on since I was twelve. This is not something I have ever hidden, nor do I intend to start. Various times in my life have threatened to push me over the edge into action, and there have been many times in the past that I have tried to end my life. Thank God, thus far I have failed. 

Ever since I found out I was pregnant this time, I have been borderline panicked that I'll miscarry again. Every time I think of it I burst into tears, thanks in part to the fact that I'll cry over just about anything right now. I legitimately do not know what I would do if I had another miscarriage so soon. I keep telling myself that the chances are slim, seeing as I've both seen the baby's heartbeat on an ultrasound and heard it on the doppler, but it still happens. 

And I'm scared. I have been attempting to reminisce the miscarriage in October, in hopes that I can lay it to rest enough that I can find peace about this miscarriage.

On Tuesday, October 23rd, 2012 at roughly 7:30 in the morning, I took a pregnancy test. My period in September had only lasted two days, and had been very, very light. All through October I have been nauseous, had headaches daily, been dizzy for no good reason, gained weight, been overly tired, had every pregnancy symptom in the book. I had thought since about October 5th that I was pregnant, however I was going to wait for an actual missed period to buy a pregnancy test. They're expensive.

I have a very regular, 30 day cycle. When my period was two days late, on Monday. October 22nd, I started thinking back over the last month. At least two of my coworkers had asked if I was pregnant that month because of the combination of my symptoms and general demeanor. I told Jacob that night that I would be taking a pregnancy test if I hadn't started by Friday. I wish so badly that I had just done as I planned, and waited until Friday. While it wouldn't have changed what happened, it would have left me ignorant of the fact that I had been pregnant.

But Jacob asked me to take the test on Tuesday. I did. It was positive, just as I knew it would be. Judging by my calculations, I was right at 9 weeks pregnant, due May 28th. I spent Tuesday morning floating on cloud nine. 

At lunch time, the cramps started. They came in waves, and were so bad that they nearly had me hunched over in tears at times. I knew then that  I was losing the baby. Even though I had only known for sure of its existence for a few hours, and had only assumed for a few weeks, it felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest. 

I had no blood on Tuesday, so I went to bed assuming that I was having the beginnings of a miscarriage, but holding on to the hope that it was simply a fluke. 

Wednesday I bled as I have never bled before, and had the same horrifying cramps. I knew then that it was over. 

My baby was at 9 weeks gestation, just two weeks smaller than Little Booger. My baby was the size of a grape. My baby had little fingers and toes. My baby's heart had been beating for three weeks. I would have got to hear that little heartbeat sometime in the next two weeks at a doctor's appointment. 

My baby was not planned. In fact, I don't know how we would have made it. I love that baby. All I can do is imagine him or her in heaven, surrounded by the three babies my Mama miscarried, and all of the multitude of babies my aunts and cousins have miscarried, playing with my Granddad and my Gi. I just imagine him or her being with Jesus, and try to be thankful that he or she will never have to deal with the hardships that Earth is so fraught with. 

But at the same time, I can't help but be heartbroken. I wanted that baby. I'll never get to hold my baby. I'll never get to see my baby smile, or hear its little heartbeat, or buy it little shoes. That baby will never get to be a big brother or sister. That baby would have been six weeks old now. I can't help but be angry about it. Why is it that 3542 women a day abort babies they don't want that they could have carried full term, when women who long for the babies in their wombs so much lose theirs? I know that I will never have the answer to that, but I can't help but wonder. 

I know that God has a plan for me, and that even if Little Booger goes to be with my first baby, and their aunts or uncles and cousins, I will make it. I can't help but to be terrified, though.