Not pregnant anymore.

Most people did not know I was pregnant. But I still think it is important for people to know that things like this happen, and not rarely. So here goes.

Tuesday, Feb 7th

At first I cried. M was there with me, thank god we had decided and I had asked that he come. It would have been...just not as comforting if I had been there with a doctor I’d never met, finding out that there was no heartbeat on the ultrasound. The doctor wasn’t particularly bad at the visit, but neither was she particularly comforting. She did her best, I suppose.

But when the situation got complicated, her English skills did not keep up with the question we had. After all, her specialty is live babies.

We both cried some more when we left the office, and headed home.

I’m not sure why I cried. Yes, of course, you are expected to cry, and I was emotional. For the first minutes, on the ultrasound table, I was feeling loss. Disappointment.

Maybe it is because we already have a daughter, who gives us a run for our money every day, and so life is already very full. Maybe because, just as when I was pregnant with A, I never felt I knew the baby while still pregnant. Sure I talked to both, while pregnant with them, but I had no chosen future or role in the family for this child yet. I mean, with A, we waited a day or two after her birth to even pick her name, because I still felt I had to get to know her.

Maybe it is because, now clear why, I’d been feeling so much less exhausted and nauseous the last 3 days.  I thought the pregnancy symptoms had just subsided earlier than with A. And they had. But not for the reason I thought. But feeling suddenly better, healthier, less sick, makes this time easier. That night I slept more soundly and deeply  than I have in the last 10 weeks.

Maybe it is because I’ve been not pregnant before, many times. 36 times in a row when we were trying for our first child. Those disappointments, month after month, were harder because there was no child yet. I had no idea what pregnancy would be like (tiring) or what mothering would be like (hard, tiring, clinically depressing and joyful - but nothing like the mostly joyful I’d imagined before A arrived). So I mourned the lost opportunity for joy.

Maybe it is because we thought it might take another 3 years to get pregnant, and we just happened to get pregnant at the first conceivable moment that we thought we might be ready to go through it all again. We were already hitting the bottom of our reserves of energy again, and prepared to put down our heads and just barrel through, but it was knowing that things would be hard.

Now I’m disappointed that I spent 3 exhausting, nauseating weeks that will not count towards the next pregnancy, should it happen someday. I feel confused about the coming choice I have to make, given no clear best choice, given my age and how far along the pregnancy was, between waiting for my body to naturally miscarry this baby, or using medical intervention. Either option could lead to the hospital in the end. Neither is without its risks for my health or chances for conceiving again.  There are some doctors I’d rather have perform a d&c than others, but I don’t know how to figure out which is which. I’d prefer a female doctor who has had this procedure herself to do it. But I’d also prefer a doctor with a realistic, not-too-cocky approach to my uterus. I want someone I can talk to about risks and choices who knows more than a few pat answers about statistics that may or may not be relevant. Someone who can say “I don’t know” when he or she doesn’t.

But then again, who of us doesn’t want that, in most of the people we interact with?

I guess I feel that, at the end of the day, of the consult, I am not willing to be told “you should really do this procedure, especially given that you are an elderly mother” (certain choices of words are, um, unfortunate, in non-native speakers), and then not be allowed  to ask extra questions that are important exactly because, as an “elderly” mother, my chances of getting pregnant are getting slimmer as the months go by.

I do feel very lucky that, if I cannot ask these questions, M will be there and will be able to. Just as at A’s birth, I asked him first and foremost to be the scientist, asking “why?” and “what are the consequences of not doing that?” when I couldn’t. Some doctors must hate us. Oh well.