The hammer drops

July 20 was Bub's mom’s birthday. It’s also the day that I miscarried.

I woke up and had some spotting that morning. I hoped beyond hope that it was implantation spotting, but I had a feeling that I was just letting myself drag it out just a bit longer. As the day wore on, I continued to bleed and panic. The doctor told me to get to the lab for blood tests to confirm what was going on. I even peed on another stick to make sure that I was still pregnant. It read “positive,” but I now know that there were still a lot of hormones in my body.

We had lunch with C. for her birthday. We had wanted so badly to tell her and D. our good news. Instead, we just ate our food with sick feelings in our hearts and stomachs. The bleeding got worse, and I took the bus up to the lab while Bub tried to have fun with her mom. We didn’t want this to ruin her 70th birthday! Finally, Bub told her that something at lunch made me sick and that she needed to take me home. I cried all the way and all night, too.

It’s hard to learn that your embryo wasn’t healthy enough for your body to want to keep it. That’s a moment that is filled with relief and with anxiety, all at the same time. It’s good that our bodies are “smart” enough to know when there is some chromosomal or hormonal abnormality that would result in a deformed or challenged person in the long run. It’s good for our bodies to let those less-than-perfect cells go before too much time and effort are expended. At the same time, it hurts so much to know that your body contributed to something that couldn’t be viable. I felt so betrayed by my “advanced-maternal-aged” eggs and uterus. Me! My body!

I couldn’t help but feel that I had done something wrong. Had I not had enough water? Did I drink too much beer two weeks before any of this even happened? Did I not have the right combination of fruits/veggies? Was I too fat? Does my body know that I’m just not meant to be a parent? Is the world trying to tell me something? Am I really just too damn old? The miscarriage was hard, but the accompanying self-doubt was torturous.