Seeing Red

*If you have a weak stomach, please don't read the rest of this post. Please.*

Sunday.
I went grocery shopping.
Concocted Pioneer Woman's Baba Ghanoush.
Made scalloped potatoes and ham for supper.
Tried to tell Avery he didn't need to watch Spiderman 3 for the fourth day in a row.
Washed the supper dishes.
Baked cookies for my grandma, who helps with her church's version of the "Welcome Wagon."
Washed baking dishes.

And started to miscarry.

Being nearly 8 weeks pregnant, the last thing I expected when I took a bathroom break was to find red-tinged toilet paper. My mother is a nurse, as I've mentioned, and she calmly and confidently told me not to get too worked up; that some women have spotting during pregnancy. I was to just monitor the situation and call my Dr's office in the morning.

So I did. I monitored the situation like a fanatic.

Every couple of hours I would sit straight up in bed, unable to shut off my mind and return to sleep. Is it worse? Has it stopped? I would try to fool myself into feeling confident, trying to walk slowly to my bathroom like I had all the reason in the world to take my time.

Like my brain wasn't clanging against my skull with jittery nervousness.
Like my hands weren't shaking uncontrollably.
Like my heart wasn't trying to pang its way out of my chest.
Like it wasn't a strong conscious effort to take a deep breath.

So with those shaking hands, I swiped again with the toilet paper. It was redder, darker, and there was more of it. And was it just my mind overworking, or was I feeling some cramping?

Each time I went to check, it was worse than the time before. My heart was plummeting to places that were shady with their incredible sadness and negativity, and each time it dove down there, I reeled it back in, attempting to stay positive.

When morning finally came, my husband kissed me and told me everything would be okay. He left for work, and I called my OB nurse...and left a message. I felt like I watched every damn minute tick by until she finally called back - nearly two hours later. She told me that some women experience bleeding between their 6th and 8th week of pregnancy, when the embryo burrows down into your uterine lining. She told me this doesn't happen to every woman, and it doesn't occur during every pregnancy. I was to come in for some blood tests to check my hormone levels. I was also told that some women's bodies don't produce enough progesterone to support pregnancy, and that if I had low levels, they could supplement them to help my body be more stable for the baby growing inside.

I called Matt. He was coming home to watch Avery so that I didn't have to keep track of a two-year-old while I had blood drawn.

I put in Spiderman 3 and headed for the shower. I undressed and looked down at my barely-showing belly.

What's happening? I wondered for the hundredth time in about 8 hours.

I said a little prayer and stepped into the shower. (Why do I only think to pray when things are scary or not going well? What makes me think my prayers will be answered? For someone who isn't incredibly religious, it seems a bit pathetic to reach out to God when I don't regularly make Him a part of my daily life.)

As I felt the hot water stream down my body, I looked down. And saw clots. Horrible, deep scarlet splotches dropping to the floor of my shower, and being quickly whisked down the drain. I made myself look up and continued showering. I finished, stepped out of the shower, and hoped the worst was done.

The cramping wasn't my imagination, and it continued.

Matt returned home, and I left for the clinic. After I registered, I entered the lab waiting room. Do you know how many large, pregnant bellies one sees on a Monday morning in the lab? Thirteen. I counted. And that was in a 20 minute time frame. Finally my name was called, and I followed the phlebotomist back to have my blood drawn. I have "terrible veins" apparently, and watching the vile woman wriggle that needle in my arm, searching frantically for my vein just about put me over the edge. But I just closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and imagined bashing her head against the Band-Aid dispenser.

I was told that it should take only an hour to have the results back. I was to call my OB nurse again and let her know we were awaiting my results. I had left the clinic at 10:45 that morning, so by my calculations, I should have my results by noon - at the latest.

I tried to show I was cool, calm, and collected - I waited until 11:51 to call. And left another message. I endured their insanely long, informative but infuriating voicemail message about pregnant women needing to get flu shots, and how their line is answered "between the hours of 8 am and 5 pm. We are not available to take your call right now, so please leave your name, date of birth, chart number, your doctor's name, and contact number, and we will return your call as soon as we are able."

Which turned out to be three minutes before 2 pm. Do you know how evil your mind can be in that length of time? Very.

It turns out my Hcg (pregnancy hormone) and progesterone were extremely low. I was told that the normal level for a pregnant woman's progesterone is 20 - mine was 1.4. And the tale I was told about getting this hormone supplemented, should it be lower than normal? Apparently a pregnancy is only worth "saving" if your levels are 10 or above. The OB nurse informed me that it's best "just wait and see how things play out. We don't want to try and save a bad pregnancy."

Wow. Did this woman take lessons to become cold and careless with her words?

I sat propped against the pillows in my bed.

I tried to stay calm.

And dammit, I needed to pee. I was beginning to despise the bathroom. Every time I entered, I would cling desperately to the hope that maybe this time I wouldn't see blood. And every time the bleeding was worse.

I hadn't cried yet after hanging up with the nurse. On my way out of the bathroom Matt asked me how I was. Evidently he hadn't heard the phone ring; he didn't know of our news. All I could manage was, "The nurse called back. Not good." Then I scurried back into my cave/room and burrowed into the covers. I just wanted to sink in and never surface again. I rolled onto my side, facing the closet, and saw all of the maternity clothes hanging there. I looked down, and at the foot of my bed was the double stroller I had purchased at a garage sale only a couple weeks earlier.

I was sobbing so hard I thought surely I would wake Avery from his nap.

How could this be happening? We wanted this baby. It was no accident that we were expecting! And after two unplanned pregnancies before this one with no problems to speak of, why this? Why us?

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I have to go in today for more blood work. They will need to check whether my body has done its job and pushed everything through, or whether a doctor will have to assist with completing that job. It's called a D & C. And I am desperately hoping that it's not necessary.

I believe I'm a strong woman.

I know I will get through this. And I know we will try again when we're told it's safe. But I know there will be fear of this happening again. And I believe it will make me more reserved and cautious about announcing a pregnancy, should we be fortunate enough to have another.

The absolute only positive thing that has come from this is that I look at Avery and see a miracle. The stars aligned, we were blessed, everything went as it should have with his fetal development.

Of that, I am now so incredibly grateful.