Type up six paragraphs. Delete. Type seven new paragraphs. Delete. Type, delete, type, delete.
There's really no other way to say this and I really don't think 2020 needs an introduction at the halfway point so here's the shortest version of my 2020 that you'll ever read: I've suffered another miscarriage.
There, I said it. Or typed it. Whatever. 2020 has just sucked on a million different levels.
To be fair, I wasn't pregnant for very long--just 3 days of beautiful, double pink lines getting darker and darker and then poof--gone. Three days of emotions so complex I'm still trying to unpack them three weeks later.
I've had so many miscarriages over the years that I've lost count. Based on my recent Facebook memories, I had one in mid-July 2009 but I have no memory of that one and haven't included it in any of my medical forms because I literally forgot about it. How sad is that?
My unsuccessful pregnancies look something like this:
2008--miscarriage discovered at 8 weeks, likely lost at 7.
2009--probably lost it at about 6 weeks but I really can't remember. I would have been far enough along to have told family but not friends and I typically share early on.
2011--Two losses this year. One at 5 weeks and another at 7 weeks.
2012--I definitely lost a perfect baby girl at 12 weeks. I think I lost another earlier in the year but I don't remember for sure.
2013--Miscarried on the way to a wedding. Just 4 weeks. I hate weddings to begin with so miscarrying on my way to one just added insult to injury.
2014--Jackson was stillborn at 21 weeks. Our only son. He'd be turning 6 weeks old in a couple weeks.
2020--loss at 4 weeks.
And these are the ones I know about. I may have had more but I lose them so early I may have missed them. In the medical world, they call me a habitual aborter. Isn't that a fun label to have? #sarcasm
I would have missed this pregnancy/miscarriage if it hadn't been for an agreement I have with my cardiologist to take a test every month before my period to make sure I stop my heart meds early enough. I'm not sure if I consider that lucky or unlucky. . .
We gave up on trying to get pregnant in 2017 and I haven't had a single positive test or anything close to it until 3 weeks ago. I'm still processing the fact that I was pregnant and that I lost it and thinking that this should be easier because we weren't actually trying--but I guess after 15 years trying to grow our family, that kind of emotional investment doesn't just "sit this one out" because we decided that we were done a few years ago. Emotions have memories, too.
I'd do it all again if I could and that's what I learned in that 3 days: I want another baby. Or two. I know I'm crazy but I'm forty years old and I'd go through the hormone therapy, the shots, the pregnancy-crazy, the 6 weeks of breastfeeding nightmares-until-we-figure-it-out, the diapers, the sleepless nights--all of it.
The last 3 weeks have been spent with me debating this and each time it comes back to, Yes, I'd do it again and I'd love it. Apart from my non-life-threatening PVCs, I'm healthier than I've been in years. I'm getting less sleep than I used to and not experiencing the afternoon "oh my gosh, I need a nap" slump.
But the thing is, starting over is such a huge emotional investment and any effort for another pregnancy could result in nothing more than adding to my list of miscarriages. Is that what I want? Is it something we want? Is it something I'm willing to risk? Is it something we're willing to risk?
I just don't know the answer to those questions but I do know how to get them: Prayer. So if you see me alone on my bike, taking a slow, deep breath, I'm praying and I'm listening.
