I don't think there was ever a time that I didn't expect to be a mother. Perhaps growing up in such a large family myself made it seem more necessary - that my life wouldn't be complete if I didn't reproduce.
My husband-to-be and I discussed it as were dating. I said something about two kids. He countered, subtly mentioning two, maybe three. I stupidly agreed, leaving him to claim I had agreed to three and opening the way for him to counter again with three, maybe four.
Um... I don't think so.
But we never looked at the other possibility: none. After a few years on birth control and deciding it was time to have a family, we just assumed we'd have one. By a year later, we began to wonder.
A couple of months waiting for an appointment. A visit to the doctor. A semen analysis. A few blood tests to check on thyroid function, etc. But before anything more, a surprise. The follow-up visit to the doctor turned out to be a pregnancy test. On August 9, 1990, give or take a few days, our life would change.
We waited a few weeks to tell anyone. I'm not sure we believed it ourselves. But it was too difficult to hide for long; the morning sickness (actually all-day sickness) was overwhelming. Once Christmas arrived, we decided we had to spill the beans (pun unintended but fitting).
A week or so later, I had my first prenatal visit. I should have been about 10 weeks along, and had just begun to wear maternity clothes. But the doctor couldn't find the heartbeat, so he scheduled an ultrasound for the next week. The ultrasound didn't show a heartbeat either, but he scheduled a second one another week later, just to be sure.
No change. No growth. No heartbeat. Fetal size appeared to still be at about 8 1/2 weeks of development. By this point I should have been at 12 weeks. Not a good sign.
I cried as I told the doctor, "I thought it would be easier if I just knew that we were able to get pregnant."
He answered, "Be careful what you wish for."
Asshole.
He scheduled a D&C for the next week. That's a nice term for an early-term abortion. They try to be kind and not call it that to make you feel better. They stressed that since there was no heartbeat, it wasn't really an abortion. It didn't make me feel better. The end result is the same no matter what you call it.
No more baby.
I had to go through another week of being pregnant but not really. Of still being sick all the time, knowing there was nothing to show for it.
When it was over, I came home and sat on the floor in front of the blowing register vents, trying to warm up, so tense that I couldn't stop shivering. I sat there, arms wrapped around myself, rocking. Trying not to let anyone see the tears.
My baby was gone. And it had never really been a baby so no one would acknowledge it.
But it was real to me, dammit.
My husband-to-be and I discussed it as were dating. I said something about two kids. He countered, subtly mentioning two, maybe three. I stupidly agreed, leaving him to claim I had agreed to three and opening the way for him to counter again with three, maybe four.
Um... I don't think so.
But we never looked at the other possibility: none. After a few years on birth control and deciding it was time to have a family, we just assumed we'd have one. By a year later, we began to wonder.
A couple of months waiting for an appointment. A visit to the doctor. A semen analysis. A few blood tests to check on thyroid function, etc. But before anything more, a surprise. The follow-up visit to the doctor turned out to be a pregnancy test. On August 9, 1990, give or take a few days, our life would change.
We waited a few weeks to tell anyone. I'm not sure we believed it ourselves. But it was too difficult to hide for long; the morning sickness (actually all-day sickness) was overwhelming. Once Christmas arrived, we decided we had to spill the beans (pun unintended but fitting).
A week or so later, I had my first prenatal visit. I should have been about 10 weeks along, and had just begun to wear maternity clothes. But the doctor couldn't find the heartbeat, so he scheduled an ultrasound for the next week. The ultrasound didn't show a heartbeat either, but he scheduled a second one another week later, just to be sure.
No change. No growth. No heartbeat. Fetal size appeared to still be at about 8 1/2 weeks of development. By this point I should have been at 12 weeks. Not a good sign.
I cried as I told the doctor, "I thought it would be easier if I just knew that we were able to get pregnant."
He answered, "Be careful what you wish for."
Asshole.
He scheduled a D&C for the next week. That's a nice term for an early-term abortion. They try to be kind and not call it that to make you feel better. They stressed that since there was no heartbeat, it wasn't really an abortion. It didn't make me feel better. The end result is the same no matter what you call it.
No more baby.
I had to go through another week of being pregnant but not really. Of still being sick all the time, knowing there was nothing to show for it.
When it was over, I came home and sat on the floor in front of the blowing register vents, trying to warm up, so tense that I couldn't stop shivering. I sat there, arms wrapped around myself, rocking. Trying not to let anyone see the tears.
My baby was gone. And it had never really been a baby so no one would acknowledge it.
But it was real to me, dammit.
