A week ago today, the doctor called and confirmed what I already suspected.
I was four weeks pregnant.
Unfortunately, was is the operative word — as I am not any more.
By the end of the week, hormone levels weren’t increasing like they should have been, and before I knew it, it was over.
Obviously, we are sad. What’s sadder than sad? Heartbroken? Yes. That’s what I was.
Talk about a 180. One day I’m spreading the good news to our family and closest friends, daydreaming about nursery furniture, and getting updates from BabyCenter. Maybe Baby was upgraded to Poppy, since the internet assured me that’s how big it was that week.
But four days later, it was just… over.
It’s just one of those things, apparently. It happens all the time. Nothing we could have done about it — it’s just natures way of dealing with something that wasn’t going to work out in the long run. Mike and I have friends and family who have been down this road before — and in the end they all had beautiful, happy, healthy babies. Sometimes it just takes a little longer than you thought. It’s not like it’s been easy so far, so I don’t know why I thought it would be any easier now.
And, as sad as I am, I’m still sort of thrilled I got pregnant in the first place. I’ve never managed to do that before.
At least that’s something. A step in the right direction, I guess.
And so we’ll try again — after a few vacations, that is, in July and August. I need some margaritas, a tan, and some ice cream. All those needles are going to have to wait, until I’m good and relaxed, and back under my own roof.
In the meantime, I guess I should paint all the things around the house that need painting. Eat some sushi. Drink some wine. Do all those delicious and toxic things pregnant people can’t get away with.
Because next time, it’s going to work.