Two Words

Two years ago today, I read one of the two single most significant words of my life. I read "Pregnant" off of a Clearblue Easy Digital pregnancy test on a Friday afternoon. I just couldn't wait for the morning; the box of tests was calling to me, whispering sweet words of hope. I say that it was one of two words because the second most significant word came the next morning: "not pregnant" (that's two words, but whatever). On Friday, September 9, 2011, my whole world changed. The trajectory of my future took a sharp turn on that day. It was the exact path I'd been hoping for…. And then we veered off course. I was fully aware of my pregnancy without fear for all of fifteen hours. And then everything fell apart.

Miscarriage is a really hard thing to explain to someone who has never experienced it. I seem like the least authoritative person to discuss this as I a- knew about my pregnancy for 2.4 seconds, and b-sometimes doubt if I was even pregnant. But at the time, I fully believed I was pregnant and fully believed that my child was slipping away, one flush of the toilet at a time. To say it changed me, would be an understatement. It continues to change me today, two years later. It has changed my faith, my marriage, the way I perceive myself, my relationships with my family and friends. It has literally changed everything.

Miscarriage is not unique within the infertility and loss community. We carry more than our fair share of the losses. Interestingly enough, I did not count myself as a member of the community at the time. In fact, I was assured that this loss had nothing to do with infertility. This was only our fourth month of trying after all. This was not a sign of things to come, this was not reason to worry. It was simply an early loss, most likely due to some chromosomal issue. I heard "it's nature taking its course" and "it's your body protecting itself" so many times... I wanted to scream. Even then, even when everyone assured me that I would get pregnant again, that this was just an unfortunate circumstance, that we'd get another chance, even then, miscarriage hurt; hurt like hell.

I know that people outside of the infertility community wonder why in the world I'm still talking about this pregnancy two years after the fact. Lots of people have miscarriages, but they don't let it define them. I get that. Totally get it. But here's the thing: when you combine miscarriage and infertility, it changes things. I imagine I would still think back and wonder "what if"; I'd wonder how our lives would look different; I'd still want that child even if infertility never became a part of our story. But if our doctor had been right, if we'd gone on to conceive again five months later, I'd have a nine month old right now, and everything would be different. I'd still miss that child, but I'd have this child right in front of me, and I wouldn't trade, so I'd say "God's plan is perfect". I would agree with others that miscarriage sucks something terrible, but my scars would be healing, my fears would be relieved, my pain would be mitigated by the crawling, teething, happy little toddler before me.

You see, it's one thing to miscarry, but it's another thing entirely to lose what may be your only chance. Because that's what it feels like. To the women who wait years, not months, to conceive, that loss is magnified more that you can imagine. They've waited 2, 3, maybe 5 years or more for this chance. To have it stolen, to watch your child leave your body, to feel your baby break free from your womb after all that time... words can't describe it. All children are precious, but that child, that child was extra precious. It wasn't conceived in a hot tub, or after a night of over indulgence, or in a moment of love and passion between the sheets. That child was conceived in stirrups, or a petri dish, or from hours of painstakingly timed intercourse. That child cost tears, and pain, and stress, and thousands of dollars. That child was fought for. The child is not more valuable than the one more easily conceived, no, that's not what I'm saying. But to that mom and dad a miscarriage is not only a loss of that child (and that's bad enough) it's the loss of time, of  energy, of money, of hope. You see, it took Jack and Sue five years to see those two pink lines, and the truth is, they don't have another five years to wait. So Sue and Jack not only mourn the loss of the baby they conceived but also the hope they had placed in that baby. Now they must start over with no guarantee. Sure, there's a one in a bazillion chance that they'll get lucky again next month, but there is a greater chance that they might not get lucky again at all.

Miscarriage is terrible; it hurts like hell; it rips a hole in your chest that you can't seem to fill, but add in infertility, and you've got another level of pain and loss entirely. So yes, I cling to that pregnancy, that single word on that test like a life raft at sea in the middle of a storm because it's been two years and I haven't seen that word or heard it since then. All too often, that baby, that life seems like it was my one shot. So I continue to mourn not only that precious soul, but also the fulfillment of my dreams, the family we could have been, and the me I was before I ever read "not pregnant" that Saturday morning in September.