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Someday I’ll be Saturday night.

November 10, 2009

Disclaimer: This entry contains information regarding our adventures with trouble trying to conceive. Feel free to skip over if you wish to avoid too much information regarding my reproductive parts. I won’t blame you. I’d rather skip this stuff, too.

Bon Jovi’s always good for a heartfelt singalong in a crowded bar. The band provides the anthem to many great nights.

Unfortunately, this isn’t one of those fun nights. It is a Bon Jovi night, though. Again. (See the tweet from last night.)

For the second time in my life, I find myself chanting the chorus to that song to get me through the ugliness. It’s equal parts mantra and distraction.

If you’re finding out this news here and feel you should have (or would have preferred to have) found out directly from me, I apologize. I haven’t had to deliver the news to many in a one-on-one fashion, but the fact that I have nothing more than the news itself to offer leaves me feeling helpless and inadequate, which really just compounds those feelings I have in the first place. So. Forgive me as I spare my already bruised feelings.

Once upon a time I thought I’d willingly share the good, bad and the ugly. Then I got the good.

Last Tuesday, I took a home pregnancy test and waited. I didn’t see a second line appear, so I crawled back in bed and slept a little more. I got up, used the bathroom and saw the test still sitting on the counter. Curious, I glanced to see if it had miraculously changed. It had. I saw a faint second line. Was it there, and I just didn’t see it because I had first looked through sleep-blurred eyes in not-bright light at 6 a.m.? Or … what? I was advised by three Very Smart Ladies to hold my pee, wait two hours and test again. I did.

Two lines. The second was faint, but it was there. After all the time I spent psyching myself up for a long, bumpy road to have our first baby, I ended up with a positive pregnancy test resulting from our first medically assisted cycle. Amazing!

A second test on Thursday and bloodwork confirmed the results, and my lips glued themselves shut. I knew we had to tell our parents because they were all waiting to hear how the meds worked out. I was excited to tell the world, but at the same time, I was hesitant.

The news was good, but it was also scary. Suddenly the humps in the road that seemed like giant barriers before seemed like puny potholes. The future that loomed before – all the potentially horrific things that go wrong in so many early pregnancy – it terrified me.

I’ve never been a superstitious person, and I don’t even consider myself one after this, but I was afraid to tell anyone, and, for lack of a better way to explain, it’s because I was afraid of jinxing it.

The road hasn’t been easy, but it hasn’t been as difficult as many experience (so far). It didn’t happen for us in the blink of an eye, but compared to others, it’s been a fraction of time (so far).

We shared our news with the bare minimum, and I held my breath.

I absolutely HATE admitting this. It sounds smug. It sounds pessimistic. It sounds horrible.

The closest word I can come up with to describe my happiest emotion reacting to the positive tests is “hopeful.”

I was hopeful. I prayed and wished and hoped with every ounce of my being that this was it, that what seemed too good to be true really was true and really was too good. It happens to people all the time, right? This thing called good news? It’s entirely possible.

And it was. But the good news didn’t stick around.

I woke up Sunday morning from a night of restless sleep. I was uneasy and said the same prayer I’d been saying first thing after waking and last thing before sleeping since Tuesday: Please, God. Please keep me and this baby safe.

I went to the bathroom to check the status of the (not concerning) spotting I’d been experiencing since Friday. It was a little heavier, so I took my concerns to the Internet. I e-mailed two of my closest friends and sought the advice of other e-buddies. Thanks to them, I called the doctor. Sure, it was a question regarding something I’ve learned is No Big Deal, but it never hurts to ask.

A half hour later, the spotting became more troubling, so I called and left another message (still waiting on a call back).

Another hour passed, and the spotting that was slightly troubling turned alarming. Rob and I drove into the doctor’s office, and I left behind some of my blood to be tested for hormone levels. That afternoon, the nurse called to tell me the levels had dropped since the confirmed pregnancy test on Thursday.

Not good, but Rob and I held out hope. Anything is possible, and since we didn’t have a solid declaration from the doctor that the pregnancy was ending, we clutched onto that shred of hope.

The bleeding grew heavier, I passed some tissue, and that shred of hope fizzled to a glimmer. A spark. Just in case.

Monday morning, I woke to find my only pregnancy symptoms – a bloated belly, sore boobs, lack of appetite and an elevated waking temperature – had vanished. The only things left behind were the steady bleeding and cramps.

Rob and I fill complementary roles in our marriage. I’m the emotional one. He’s the practical, level-headed one. My mind has been flooded with all the different what-could-have-beens – a due date just before my birthday and the possibility of twins among those – while he says there’s no reason to build up hurt and think past the bottom line: We were pregnant. Now we aren’t.

We still don’t have answers regarding why this happened (if there are answers to be had), and we don’t currently know what will happen next. It’s because of this I’ve had such problems sharing the bad news. I have no answers to give people, and people want to hear answers to bad news. It’s hard to hear bad news from a friend, and a good friend wants nothing more than to hear what will fix the pain their friend is going through. We don’t know, so I’m left delivering the bad news with no resolution, and that just sucks.

Which gets me back to Bon Jovi. I’m sad. I’m disappointed. I have some ugly moments during my day when I can’t stop the tears (like now!), but overall, I’m OK. The good news is those teary moments are greatly decreasing each day. I have some great distractions working for me, but those distratctions aren’t there 24 hours a day, which is why I’m sitting here, unleashing my thoughts on the world and listening to Coldplay. (Seriously. Coldplay. The world might end.) It’s getting better, though. It’s getting easier.

It’s cliche to say and HORRIBLE to hear (seriously, don’t say this to someone who’s lost a pregnancy), but at least we know we can get pregnant. That piece of information was one big missing puzzle piece to our TTC journey. It’s painful and doesn’t mean a giant amount right now because the ability to get pregnant doesn’t equal the ability to maintain a healthy pregnancy, but it’s a start. It’s much more than a glimmer of hope, closer to a shred. A big shred.

Also, I have strong faith in God. My faith assures me He makes the best decisions for me in the long run. It’s hard to describe why, but my faith in God’s plan behind this pregnancy isn’t what’s comforting right now. What comforts me about my faith is that He’s still there and He still cares. He delivers some painful events, but He also delivers comfort. I can’t pinpoint what that comfort is. Maybe it feels different to everyone. For me, it feels like a gentle pat on the back combined with a nice shoulder squeeze rather than a firm push forward from behind, which is how I’d describe what people seem to try to attempt with “It’s part of God’s plan,” because there’s always the implied, “so you should be OK with it.”

I’m not angry with God. I don’t feel like He’s slighted us, like He’s taken away something that was rightfully ours. But that doesn’t mean I’m OK with it. Maybe I will be someday. Maybe I won’t.

What I know for sure is that I will heal. I’ll soon have a tear-free day. I’m sad and disappointed to have lost this pregnancy, but I’m hopeful we’ll celebrate a successful one – someday.

I’m feeling like a Monday, but someday I’ll be Saturday night.

p.s. I hope getting this out on here lets me move forward some. I miss blogging, but I’ve felt like a phony for trying to blog about anything but this. The fact is, these are the thoughts dominating my brain right now. I don’t know how long the same thoughts can loop through on repeat, but here’s to hoping I’m nearing a new brain playlist.

15 Comments leave one →
  1. poeia permalink
    November 10, 2009 8:15 pm

    I am sorry. It is inadequate and common, but I am sorry.

    And I will be hopeful for you.

  2. speed permalink
    November 10, 2009 8:34 pm

    ::hugs:: Jenny. I’ll reshare my “mantra” of sorts. Having gone through the same tunnel (can’t say I’ve made it to the other side just yet), I can assure that each day does indeed get sweeter, softer and brighter. And each day brings better news.

  3. November 10, 2009 9:02 pm

  4. November 10, 2009 9:38 pm

    I’m so sorry. I’m so incredibly sorry for you that I’m actually crying.

    I wish I could think of something better to say, but nothing sounds right.

    I’m just really, really sorry.



  5. November 10, 2009 10:09 pm

    Lots of love and hugs for you. We are here if you need us for anything at all.

  6. November 10, 2009 10:23 pm


  7. November 10, 2009 10:24 pm

    umm, yeah. that was supposed to be

  8. November 10, 2009 10:24 pm

    grrr, ok. that was hugs…. times three now I guess. ❤

  9. Christina permalink
    November 10, 2009 10:36 pm

    You will remain in my thoughts and prayers. I am so sorry for you and Rob. I truly hate this for you and for all those I know who have suffered such a loss. I was moved by the honesty and faith in your post.

  10. November 10, 2009 11:46 pm

    Just take care of yourself. The answers will come and you’ll have your happy ending.

    Thoughts and prayers coming your way.

  11. Laura permalink
    November 11, 2009 9:51 am

    Still saying lots of prayers for you and thinking about you. ((Hugs friend))

  12. November 11, 2009 1:33 pm

    I don’t know what else to say except I am so sorry you’re going through this. ::hugs::

  13. beth permalink
    November 12, 2009 1:11 pm

    so sorry Jenny 😦 Like you said, at least there is one less thing you have to worry about(yay for ovulating) and I hope hope hope that your long and healthy pregnancy will come soon. Hugs and hang in there!

  14. Liz permalink
    November 12, 2009 10:08 pm

    I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. We haven’t even begun TTCing, but I can only imagine the roller coaster that you and Rob have been on. I hope and pray that good news does come your way very soon!

  15. November 13, 2009 3:35 pm

    So sorry- I’ve been there and it’s not the least bit fun. Your faith is awesome- it will certainly see you through. Hope you’re feeling like yourself soon!

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