The Zog Blog

I went to sleep on the 16th pregnant, filled with excited thoughts of the baby I’d seen in ultrasound a week earlier. Heart flickering, little proto-limbs flailing. I was weeks further along than I’d thought, but the doctor assured me that it looked perfectly healthy and my spotting was nothing to worry about. Come back in next week and we’ll get a better handle on your dates, he said, but it seems like you’re somewhere between 8 and 10 weeks.

I woke up on the 17th ready for my ultrasound. Ready to get the worry behind me, ready to get on with the rest of the pregnancy, ready for the end of the spotting I’d had for over a week. As I was walking out the door, blood. So much blood. Panicked, I stuffed some toilet paper to preserve what could be preserved of my clothes and sped to the doctor. Amid my worries that I’d bleed all over the chair, an ultrasound confirmed the worst. Our active little bean was floating peacefully in the amniotic fluid, his/her little arm buds perfectly still. No hopeful flickering of a heart. No hope.

I went to sleep that afternoon, empty of everything but the vicodin/valium cocktail they’d given me for the procedure. I’d lost the baby, I’d lost my long-planned trip east for a fiber festival, I wanted nothing but sleep. I slept for four hours with no dreams.

I woke up feeling surreal. I clearly wasn’t pregnant anymore–the causeless anger/random weeping combo I’d been dealing with for over a month was gone. I felt almost chipper. I walked around the house in a daze while Jon and Jacob finished their nap. I needed to get away for my weekend as I’d planned, figure out how I felt about things, try to get some perspective again. After securing the okay with my doctor, I threw things into a suitcase, rushed out the door. I don’t remember if I spoke much to Jon or Jacob, or what I said. I fell asleep on the plane dreaming of a weekend of escape.

Boston’s morning fog gradually lifted into a crisp, sunny fall day. The leaves were riotous with color, the air smelled clean. I felt, like I always do when I return to New England, at home. More at peace. More hopeful. I filled the weekend with enjoyable distractions, took some space to feel like myself again, actively tried not to think of any of my problems. By the end of the weekend, I felt like I was actually capable of returning home and getting things back in order.

So, I’m back. We’re partly unpacked in a new house, our finances haven’t been closely maintained in a month, internet is still spotty, the months until we can start trying to have children again seem interminable, my aunt has just been diagnosed with fairly advanced cancer, I’m behind on my work. But thanks to a break, I’m here, with my son and husband, slowly picking up the pieces. And that’s all that really matters.

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