Somehow I made it through that weekend, but I have to admit that by Monday morning my optimism was losing ground to cold hard reality. Every time I answered the call of nature there was more and more visual evidence that things were not going well. Nevertheless I rubbed my belly and prayed like I had never prayed before that the baby would be OK.
I went back to the doctor's office, climbed on the ultrasound table and waited breathlessly to hear my hopes confirmed. Instead, I heard the dreaded, "I'm sorry...." The nurse led me, weeping, past the inner waiting room, which just happened to have quite a few pregnant ladies in it, and into an exam room. Talk about a nightmare! Just seeing all those pregnant bellies drove home the point that I wasn't going to have one any time soon. My very compassionate doctor came in and very kindly explained that because I was so far along and the miscarriage was not "complete" I would need a procedure to clean out my womb called a "D & C". The first date she suggested happened to be my baby's second birthday so I asked for it to be scheduled a day earlier because I didn't want K's birthday to be associated with such a sad event.
I don't remember a lot about that day but I can still see flashes. I was just so incredibly sad that the word "sad" doesn't even cover it. I was bereft, sorrowful, grief-stricken. I was in a daze and on the verge of tears until the anesthesia took hold, and again when I woke up. I felt physically empty once it was done. I wish I could say that I bounced back quickly and that my love for the two daughters I already had chased my grief away, but of course it didn't. Looking back, I feel bad for my poor husband. Men want so much to "fix" problems, and this was something he could do nothing about. It was probably not helped when he wasn't allowed to go back with me while I was waiting for my surgery - he had to stay in the waiting room until I was in recovery. And then he was left with a broken wife that seemed beyond comforting. When the doctor called a week later to tell me that my lost baby was a "perfectly healthy baby girl" and there seemed to be no medical explanation for what happened, that just made things worse. At least there might have been some consolation in a chromosomal abnormality or something, but this seemed to be a pointless tragedy.
I've personally always struggled with finding the right words to say to someone who has suffered a loss, and apparently other people share my struggle, based on my experience. What can you say? From the outside you wouldn't know I had suffered a loss at all. I hadn't been obviously pregnant so if you weren't in my inner circle you might not have even known that I was. And a miscarriage is not something you announce to all your friends like you would a birth, or even the loss of a parent or other family member. So once the D & C was done I had to contend with somehow passing along the information to those who needed to know, while trying to gently enlighten people who were still congratulating me on my pregnancy. In case you're wondering, a nice thing to say to someone who has suffered a pregnancy loss is this: "I'm sorry for your loss." And if possible, give them a chance to talk about it. Too often people like to act as if it wasn't a "real" loss since the baby never even took a breath, but it's a loss all the same. Usually a woman who finds out she is expecting a baby has already (consciously or subconsciously) visualized the next 18 (or more) years with that baby. And then to have that future disappear... well, it takes the rug right out from under you.
After that loss I never became pregnant again, despite using zero birth control. In fact, my doctor told me a couple of years later that she doubted I could get pregnant, based on my past history.
Coming up: Out of Control: Part 7 - Happily Ever After. Sort of.
