This week has been the worst.
Monday we went in for our second ultrasound, to check back in and see if Poppy had caught up growth-wise.
There was no heartbeat.
The subchorionic bleed had almost doubled in size – 44mm x 38mm x 11mm.
The doctor said the embryo measured at 6 weeks 6 days, so that was when it had stopped growing. Last Thursday. The same day I decided I was going to start thinking positive, and being confident, and started telling people we were pregnant.
Last Thursday. When I had no idea that my baby, my very first pregnancy after so much heartache, was leaving us.
Last Thursday. When I had no idea that a week later I would be having a D and C – tomorrow.
When we were at the doctor’s office, I couldn’t even process. Michelle was a wreck, and I was just in shock. He tried to tell us that it was a good sign that we had gotten pregnant at all, and that we could try the same regimen in September. But, I’m sorry, I don’t buy that it’s a “good sign”, when it took over a year to get pregnant at all, and it didn’t work out.
He also gave me the options: wait for my body to realize the baby had stopped growing and to naturally expel it, take a drug to make it happen, or the D and C. When he started talking about prescribing Vicodin with the other drug, I immediately scratched that one off of the list. And natural could take three to four weeks! A lifetime of knowing what was inside of me and waiting at every turn for the blood. So I’ve opted for the D and C.
It’s been a rough week. It’ll hit me at the most random moments, like realizing I could have a cup of coffee, or drink at our friend’s bachelorette party this weekend.
I feel heartbroken; I thought we were there, that this was it. I’m also incredibly angry. Like, what the hell universe for dealing out hands of infertility and miscarriage both. And I looked up the odds today. One study had the odds of miscarriage after 6 weeks and with a heartbeat at less than 5 percent. Five percent!
It’s so incredibly cruel and unfair.