The first round of babymaking was so easy. At least in retrospect.
The pregnancy test glowed positive almost before we even tried to get pregnant. We thought it would take at least a few months. It didn’t.
The pregnancy was lightweight. Literary and figurative. I worked full time until I gave birth. Was in great shape.
The second round was tougher. The part of getting pregnant was just as easy as last time, but during the pregnancy I was terribly tired. The last weeks I did nothing but sleep all day. All in all I did not have much difficulties, many women have a lot more, but I was exhausted. I missed to spend time with my baby girl.
Third time around I was prepared for a tough pregnancy, probably tougher than the second one. I was not prepared for trouble getting pregnant.
I was not prepared to loose my baby only five weeks into pregnancy. And I was certainly not prepared of losing a second time, after 10 weeks.
Some would argue that a five week old fetus is hardly even life, and certainly not a baby. To me it was. It was wanted, desired, expected, planned.
But the plans did not go as planned.
I cried. Alone, as i always do. Why should I cry, really, when this is so ordinary. It was tough, but I managed. It was easier since nobody knew and I didn’t have to share. My husband thought I handled it so nicely.
We were comforted that it rarely happens twice. Most women experiences it once, few twice. We tried again after a few weeks.
After a few cycles and rounds of trying we got another positive test. Calmed by the thought that we probably wouldn’t loose again we started to plan our future as a family of five. Again.
The morning before my daughter’s fourth birthday I woke up bleeding. Not much, but enough to get worried. The family birthday party went on as planned. I put my worries away.
I went to bed that evening hoping the bleeding would stop over night. The day after was her real birthday. With presents in bed in the morning, her friends from kindergarten coming to celebrate later on.
I got up five thirty with little brother. At six I told my husband I was losing another baby. Half past six I stood in the shower watching the remains come out. It was not much. Probably it had died weeks ago without me noticing.
A quarter to seven we were singing “Happy birthday” as we walked into my daughter’s room, surprising her with presents.
The whole day was planned. Whenever I could I took five minutes to go to the bathroom and cry, then returned to the party. Lots of four year old girls running around having fun and their parents drinking coffee. I smiled. I made it a great party. All I had to do was to cope until Monday, then I could take care of myself. Spend time alone.
Monday morning my husband got sick, the flu. I spent the next three days taking my kids to the kindergarten, nursing my husband, making dinner, sanitizing the house. In between I got checkups by my doctor, was canceling appointments for ultrasound and pregnancy checkups.
When I finally had time to take care of my self it was time to get back to work. I had forgotten to cry. I had lost my grieving. I have lost my grieving. Now I do not know how to.
It’s not a big deal. Women lose their babies a lot later than week 10. It wasn’t even a real baby yet. And it happens all the time. The thing is that you don’t only loose a tiny bean of a fetus. You loose plans, future, all that could have been. You loose time. You loose your baby.
Next round I will get checkups from week 7. I will probably need several more to feel secure. I’m not sure I can go through a pregnancy again without great anxiety.
I have lost two times and I feel devastated. There are women who loses again and again and again. And keep trying! For years.
I can not imagine the strength it takes. You have my deepest respect.