Past Tense Pregnant

It's been quite some time since I've written, I know. Perhaps if my absence crossed your mind, you made some guesses as to its cause. And some of you were probably correct: to our great shock and excitement, after almost eight months, we actually got pregnant. I was pregnant. Was. Past tense. 

I recently heard a spoken word poetry performance called "Complainers" by Rudy Francisco. In it he says of all of the small daily complaints we make, "how blessed are we to have tragedies so small they can fit on the tips of our tongues?" I've been thinking about that line a lot as I, someone who is always able to find the words, has not been able to easily talk about our loss. I met with a radiologist recently for more fertility testing, and when he asked me very frankly about what happened to the pregnancy, I found myself forced to say things out loud that I hadn't said once since all of this happened. To my surprise, I was able to form the words for a stranger. So I will try again here.

A few weeks after finding out I was pregnant, we visited the doctor for an early ultrasound ordered by my doctor as a precaution. My husband and I nervously chattered in the waiting room before being called back to the ultrasound room. As the technician got started, I remember focusing intensely, eyes wide, on the blurry, cone-shaped image projected on the wall-mounted screen. I didn't want to miss even a millisecond of the very first glimpse of our long-awaited baby Spencer. Tap, tap, click. Tap, tap, click. Seconds dragged into minutes and still nothing appeared on the screen. Dread began to rise in my throat, but I clung to hope, reminding myself that the only ultrasounds I've ever seen have been on TV and in movies. I wanted to glance back over my shoulder at Chris (for reassurance? to provide him reassurance?), but I couldn't drag my eyes away from the screen. Tap, tap, click. Tap, tap, click. And still nothing appeared. The technician began to ask questions to confirm the dates of my period and ovulation; her tone was nonchalant, but I knew then. I knew then that there would not be anything to see on that screen. I knew then that the little updates I read first thing each morning about baby's growth and development were meant for some other pregnancy, some other baby. I knew then that there would not be a baby for us after all.

In meeting with my doctor after the ultrasound finally ended and some follow-up bloodwork was conducted, we learned that the pregnancy was ectopic and, therefore, not viable. I was treated the very next day with methotrexate to stop the growth and prevent an emergency surgery - two injections (in the ass, no less) at a pharmacy I'd never been to, from a very kind and gentle pharmacist. As we waited for the doctor's order to be confirmed, an employee of the pharmacy came in with her newborn tucked into a carseat. We quickly gathered that she was on maternity leave and visiting to show the baby off to her coworkers, as they cooed and jostled to see the sleeping infant. I could feel myself cracking in half deep inside, panicking and desperate for the pharmacy tech to return with my insurance card and transport me from this actual hell. My husband worriedly paced the pharmacy while he waited for me to reappear from the little office where I received the injections, busying himself with the stand of greeting cards and undoubtedly humming as he sometimes does to fill an anxious silence. I don't remember much else about that day actually; I think I just floated through it in a foggy river of tears. We sent texts to some of our family members, with whom we had just shared the happy news a week before. A text is not an ideal way to break that kind of news, but I just couldn't say it out loud. I just couldn't bear their grief and disappointment on top of my own; at times, I found it difficult enough just to look my own husband in the eye, knowing I was unable to save him from sadness either and feeling somehow personally responsible for it. 

I bled through the next week or so, every trip to the bathroom a tearful and traumatic reminder of those first days of loss. I had to go for follow-up bloodwork every fews days to monitor my HCG (the pregnancy hormone) and make sure it was decreasing - my arms still ironically black and blue from the testing to show it was increasing, confirming my pregnancy, in the weeks prior. During my first lab visit after the loss, the entire waiting room was filled with pregnant women. When I was finally able to move to the interior waiting room, I found myself seated directly across from the room where we saw the empty ultrasound. I wanted to scream and wail and tear at my skin and disappear all at the same time. In those moments, I truly did not know how I was going to survive any of this. But I have survived. I am surviving. 

Most days are okay, although I have found that my grief is not linear; it cycles back to this awful pain from time to time when I least expect it. I'm not sure you realize until you learn you are pregnant and carrying a wanted child how quickly you are thrust into motherhood, how different and meaningful your sense of purpose feels, how you feel like you are never alone in the best, most peaceful way possible. In the wake of this loss, even though I only had a few short weeks to bear the weight and responsibility of motherhood, I have felt such a deep sense of purposelessness and loneliness. I also sometimes feel that my grief is now my only connection to this pregnancy; without my sadness to tether it, it might just float away out of memory like it never happened. 

Some of you will read this and have no idea what to say. Please know that's okay. It's actually more than okay. Sometimes it's enough to just bear witness to someone's loss and grief. One thing I have learned through all of this is how much I hate the words "at least." At least it was early. At least you know you can get pregnant. At least you didn't have to have surgery. Fuck "at least." I was pregnant. For weeks, I opened the bathroom drawer each morning to touch the positive pregnancy test like a magical talisman, beginning each day in joyful disbelief. For weeks, I ended each day settling into bed with a hand on my belly, willing my love to be felt through my fingertips. I was pregnant. Was. Now I am not. And there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it.