It was at this time last week when I knew something was wrong. I woke up at 9:30am and saw what looked like my mucus plug in the toilet. For the uninitiated, that’s this tiny little thing that keeps your cervix closed. Losing it signals the beginning of labor.
I thought nothing of it, just some usual pregnant lady things. I was roughly six weeks along and since I had spotted all throughout my first pregnancy, this didn’t really bother me at first. So I went to breakfast with some girlfriends and ignored the pain that was beginning to dully pound away at my lower back. What I didn’t know at that time was it was labor pains, and that in an hour, I was going to lose my child.
After breakfast, we went back to our hotel room, a lovely 2-bedroom suite we rented for last night’s bachelorette party. I didn’t say anything to the rest of the girls about what I was feeling, because everyone was in a light, happy mood and I didn’t want to ruin it. But I felt something wasn’t right. I went to the restroom and that’s when I saw the blood. I knew then that I had to go to the hospital, which thankfully was only 3 minutes away from our hotel. Not that it mattered; nothing was going to save it.
I spent the next 8 hours waiting for someone to tell me what I already knew. Each time I had to go to the toilet, I lost more and more blood. There came a point where I tried to hold back my freaking pee thinking to myself that maybe if I just hold it back, maybe if I don’t go until forever it will hold on and everything will be okay. This, of course, was wishful thinking, and I always had to go. So I ended up sobbing hysterically each time I had to go to the toilet, wondering why the damn hell it was taking the damn doctor forever to arrive. It was a Saturday, so the lines were long and this doctor, not my usual OB, was late. Damn you doctors who are always late. Why are you always late?
Thankfully, the feet that were waiting impatiently outside my bathroom stall would shuffle on to the next stall whenever they would hear me trying to muffle my own sobs with my shirt.
Finally, my turn came. This doctor, like so many of the older OBs, was cold at first, chastising me for not acting the first moment I saw spotting. I wanted to throw something at her, but knew that now is not the time to act like a juvenile and decided to just yell SHUT UP YOU OLD WITCH in my head. Full transparency, I didn’t really say “witch”.
She checked my insides, told me I had to get an ultrasound, “just to be sure”. BUT HEY GUESS WHAT. There was some kind of Gynecological conference and most OBs were required to go, so there was only one doctor in the maternal care wing of the hospital. This meant that it was going to take forever, and why not, everything else was going wrong anyway. So I spent the next few hours just sitting on a couch, playing candy crush and lurking on Reddit, trying to distract myself. My husband arrived halfway through this ordeal, because he had to wait for my parents to be available to watch our son. He came, bought me lasagna and some tea. He is always such a comforting presence, like a big, thick blanket in a cold room. He didn’t have socks on in his leather shoes. He and Elon slept over at my parent’s house the night before and I forgot to pack his slippers. I always forget to pack his slippers.
Well, we know what happened after that. Nothing on the ultrasound. Went to see my regular OB (who I love so much shout out to Dr. Gergen Lazaro-Dizon you are the best OB in the world), confirmed what I already knew. Negative pregnancy test, cervix closed. It passed cleanly, she said, a full miscarriage. No other treatments needed. After I get my next period, we can try again. Not sure I’m there yet. Maybe in another year. This was exhausting.
I had imagined a different Christmas scene. We were going to surprise our parents, show them a photo of the baby that was growing inside me. I was due July 2018. I was gonna stock up on maxi dresses because I can still wear them even after I give birth. That’s not going to be the scene now. Now it’s going to be me fielding questions about when the next one will come, and giving a generic answer and try not to cry. But it’s okay, people never mean it the wrong way, they’re just excited for new life. Aren’t we all.
So, it’s been a week. We only told our family and my closest friends. What’s the point, I thought, of telling anyone else. But here I am, yelling into the void that is the Internet, hoping that writing about it helps me heal faster because I just want to not hurt when I think about it. I went through all the stages of grief already. I guess this part is acceptance.
Whatever God’s plan is, I know there is a purpose to the pain. And whatever it is, I know love is at the center of it. So maybe we’ll see you later, little alligator, and not a moment too soon.