Trying to conceive is such an arduous journey.  Once the idea of having a baby turns from a vague possibility to something you want rightthissecond, the days and months seem to move at a snail’s pace, as you prepare for ovulation, do your best to time things just right so the sperm actually meets the egg, and of course, the grueling two week wait.  No mama-to-be that I have ever met takes much joy in the weeks after ovulation when the process is completely out of your control and there is nothing to do but wait wait wait wait.

Then finally, those long two weeks end with those beautiful double pink lines.  B. F. P.  You stare at the stick in wonder, feeling nothing short of shock and awe.  You whisper to yourself, “There’s a baby in there.  Oh my goodness.”

So then, after all of the two week waits, you call your doctor and realize, oh yeah. More waiting.  Four weeks worth.  You wait, you watch, and you have a lot of time to think.  About your future baby.  About the upcoming nine months.  About your symptoms.

Finally, it’s the big day.  And yesterday was mine.

After four long weeks of waiting, of fatigue and insomnia, sore boobs and emotions running high, I finally arrived at my midwife’s office to catch a glimpse of that little one growing in there.  My hubby was stuck at work due to unforeseen circumstances, so I was flying solo. My midwife and I went through all the questions and chit chat, and then it was go time.  Time for the ultrasound.

Having a trans-vaginal ultrasound is never fun, but once that wand is up there, the absolute last thing you want to hear is that your provider is having trouble seeing what she is looking for.  My midwife brought in the ultrasound technician who confirmed what my midwife suspected and what I feared most: no baby. Our little gestational sac was empty. Development stopped in the sixth week, and despite all of my hyped up hormones and bloated belly, our pregnancy journey was…is…over.

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I sit here writing in a state of shock.  Just as my body never really went into labor with my first child, it seems like even with a failed pregnancy, my body seems to want to hang on tight.  Before my appointment, I had no symptoms of miscarriage – no cramping, no bleeding, no pain.  This morning is my D&C procedure, to remove the evidence of our would-be September baby.  To make it go away, as quickly as possible.

More than anything, I wish that the D&C procedure could cut out the hurt, excise the pain, make the past four weeks disappear.  Wash away the daydreams, the nursery visions, the names we brainstormed, the babymoon plans.

Of course, I find reassurance in knowing that this is not the end of the world.  I am young enough not to fear the ticking clock of time…yet.  The oh-so-reliable internet tells me that the majority of miscarriages in the first trimester are caused by chromosomal abnormalities, and honestly, I know that there is nothing at all I could have done differently.  This baby just wasn’t meant to be.

I’m hurting now, but I won’t hurt always.  There will be physical pain this afternoon, this week, and in the weeks and months to come, I know my heart will need time to heal as well.  One this is all set and done, I’ll have another four week wait on my hands – the wait for my period to resume, so I can rejoin the mamas-to-be out there, tracking my cycle and chugging along through the two week wait once more.