So, I peed on a stick tonight, yaknow, because that’s what I do. The positive line came up before the control line. It’s a BRIGHT plus, not a wimpy plus. And, to top it off, I don’t even know if I’m very late. Maybe a day or two? Actually, I HAVE NO CLUE. I don’t remember when we even HAD sex, honestly. Then I thought, maybe I’m STILL pregnant from last time? But my last HCG was less than five and I had a negative test at home five weeks ago.

So.

I’m pregnant.

Apparently. And I thought Poop was big news.

Just got the call: HCG is less than five. We can :: ahem :: resume “normal activity” and start trying whenever we feel comfortable.

I’m drinkin’ some wine tonight, baby! Bring on the BABY MAKING.

Wooot!

*upon hearing this news Mr. Flinger says, “Activity as normal? Can’t we do better than once a month? Come on, Man, throw me a bone.” He forgot about the the experiment already? Jeesh.

Apparently I’m a 12, hormonal-wise. That is to say, my hormones came back at an HGC level 12 from yesterday. Apparently, this is news to drink red wine to and cook a steak for the first time since 1982.  Or rather, to cook a steak for the first time in your life and eat one for the first time since 1982. Also, it leads you to call your husband in a complete panic, “How the hell do I cook steak?” To which he laughs, “In a pan.”

Well, all that would happen if you were us. That’s how we celebrate a number of 12.

The doc and I had a little chat about my eggs. I told him the specifics of the miscarrige, the absense of tissue, the length and duration, the cramping, the dperession. The fact that I’m doing so much better now I can actually talk about it without cussing or crying or sitting in the closet for a few hours. In fact, I had a lovely, very factual conversation with the only other man who’s seen more of me naked or half clothed than anyone else. (I mean, really, who else sees me wrapped in a sheet that much? I’m not in the KKK. So. There goes that.)

He mentioned that small fact about greater than 50% of pregnancies ending in miscarriage. He said that thing about how “if you weren’t so on top of it, you’d probably have no clue,” (like this is helpful?) and he brought up that I’m young
and I have a bunch of good eggs left and “you probably just hit the bad one.” Uhhu. Why, oh why, did we get THAT egg? Probably because it was next in line and that’s how these things work.

I knew I switched to Egg Beaters for a reason.

It seems my only outlet (rather, the only healthy outlet) for my frustration is in design. So I quickly came up with a ?what to do when the Universe craps on your life? blog. I KNOW I KNOW! I?ll grab some extra TP and flush like mad until it all goes away.

And here we are. I do like the brown. Don?t think of it as shit-brown. It?s more like chocolate. MMMMMMmmm Chocolate.

Following a *teeny weeny* melt down after talking to the ?advice? nurse (aka: bitchass lady from my pregnancy that is back to haunt me again), I decided to lay the kid down, grab a coffee, and design with some chick music on in the house. Therapeutic for me. Nerdy to you.

Now that I can talk without using the eff bomb every other word, let?s discuss advice nurses and the pitch they give you when you call. I swear to god, it?s like calling India for your computer support. ?Push One to talk to a real person, Press Two to leave a message. Press 3 to be put on hold for thirty minutes. Press 4 if you know they?ll all get you on hold for thirty minutes because you?ve done this before.?

Beep

Elevator music.

Thirty minutes later: ?Hello? Yes? Hi. I have a uterus problem. I need to talk to Uterus Support?  ?Yes. I hear that you have Uterus problem? You speak to support? Yes.? Ok. Yes, I had my blood drawn and, well, I wondered what the numbers were and I?m bleeding, see, and I don?t know what to look for in a miscarriage. I don?t know if I?ve seen.. IT ?Well. You to look for tissue. Yes. Have you rebooted? Is it plugged in? Oh. Sorry. Wrong Paper :: sound of shuffling :: Yes. Uterus. I see your number. It is low.? Yes, I know it?s low. I?m hoping to know what it is. I?m having a miscarriage now.  Long Pause. Long description of what HCG is that I?ve heard a billion times. More shuffling of papers. ?348.? Ok. My number is at 348. Thank you. Now, what do I look for? ?Yes. The tissue, the result of conception, will be not blood like. It will be grayish and pink. You will cramp and have pain. Then you are to know it is coming. Like labor.? Uh. Like labor? ?Yes. The pain is to like labor when the tissue is coming. Yes. The result of conception will come out to follow.?

I swear to god, if she says ?result of conception? one more time, I?m going to lose it right here. Right now.

She did.

In fact, she said it over and over and over. She kept talking. She kept reading the script. She was heartless, and horrible, and I ended up bawling on the phone to Mr. Flinger, who could not leave work no matter how much the bitch at Kaiser said ?result of conception.?

It was a person. It was a baby. You might not agree, and that?s ok. But to me, it was real. And, for your information, the ?result of conception? makes a person. And THAT is what I?m still looking for coming out of my body.

How long before it?s ok to drink? Someone? ?Cause we just got the BEST Starbucks Liquor (recommended by ) and vanilla vodka for Starbucks Martinis. Care to join?

Since there aren’t any hallmark cards for “currently emptying uterus”, I thought the next obvious sign would be lumbering up to the counter at Fred Meyer with two Elmo DVDs, a runny/red nose and puffy eyes, a pack of kleenex, pads and martini mix. No need to ask how my day is, really. Someone teach people behind the counter a bit about body language. ‘Cause unless you really REALLY want to know? Don’t ask.

I had my blood work today since they’re now watching for my HCG to hit zero. Now it’s the “Let’s play for under par!” game. And I was just getting used to rooting for a higher number.

I think the thing I’m most thankful for, (aside from KNOWING, and having a supportive husband who is sad but still taking the kid so I can lay down and cramp in peace, and all that mushy love crap… ahem) is the wonderful support and advice from all of you. The thing is, I’d never know what to expect if I didn’t have Christine and Traci (to name a few) telling me what will happen when I miscarry. That book isn’t out there, “What to expect when you think you’ll bleed to death.” And there’s no chapter on, “Where to find the HCG calculators so you can play with your HCG numbers and check the doubling times!” or “Fun with HCG needles!” It’s not there. None of it is. So instead, I’m listening, intently, to all your comments and emails and my uterus. I’m trying to have that still small voice that says “HUSH” when my uterus says “UUGGHHHHHHHH!” and my body sends the baby packing. I’m thankful that you are willing to talk because I’m more than happy to listen. And the knowledge that I am not alone is worth a million Skinny Cow Ice Cream Sandwiches, which I have a new pack of 20 from Costco of, so help yourself. And then settle in. It could be a long night.

There are two kinds of bloggers. Those that blog on the weekend, and those that don’t.

Which are you?

P.S. I do both.
P.P.S. You know that.
P.P.P.S. No new news. As of last night everything stopped. WhatEVER. It’s getting old, isn’t it? Yes! no! YES! NO! YES! NO! Baby! No baby! BABY! NO BABY! Good lord.
P.P.P.P.S. I used to think P.S. stood for “Please See”. So P.P.S. is “Pretty Please See”.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. That has nothing to do with this post.

The end. (finally)

I know people blog during labor, but how many people blog during a miscarriage? Probably not a lot, I’m guessing. So I don’t think I will, either. (I usually open my mouth too early, speak without speaking, and say the wrong things anyway, so I will spare you all the wrath of my rambling…)

However. I think I have an answer and it’s not even Tuesday. And honestly? I’m thankful to have an answer. Just this morning I had dreams that the baby was ok, doing well, and I’d be puking in a few days. But really, I think, although it hasn’t started in full as of yet, that it’s finally something I can let go. And, like I said, I’m ok. Really. Thanks to you all, I love you, I appreciate your stories, I love that you read and care and send emails and cards and call me. I’m ok. I’m surprisingly relieved to have an answer.

And if you really want to know, I can update you. But so far, just a smallish amount of stuff and the impending cramping that is a sign of what is sure to come. It’s like Christmas, all the anticipation, minus the presents and the family and all the fattening food. Ok, I had pizza tonight and ice cream (because I’m pregnant, yaknow) so it’s a little like Christmas if you have pizza and ice cream on Christmas.

Which nobody ever does.

So it’s not like Christmas at all. In fact, it’s the anti-Christmas.

If you knew me in person, you’d never utter the words “graceful” when describing me. In fact, I can think of several antonyms that come to mind (klutz, uncoordinated, “trip much?”) This doesn’t just apply to my physical attributes. I’ve mentioned it before, but while I like to think I’m tough shit, I am so not tough shit. I’m more of an “all feisty and tough when the going is good and one pile o’ weepy hormones when it’s not” kind of a gal. You don’t see many made for tv movies based on that heroine.

So, when it comes to the pregnancy purgatory I’m in, it’s not a surprise that some days I feel that my body can do anything! I can grow even the most damn stubborn baby! Thy lining will thicken and the child will implant and thy hormones, they will explode into the thousands and I will be the bitchy, pukey, crazy pregnant lady we all will come to know and love. But on other days, or those minutes when the house is quiet and I have a few minutes to think, I’ll mentally curl up and drive myself batty thinking of the what-ifs. “What if it IS ectopic. What if I DO bust an ovary? What if I never bleed? What if I have a missed abortion? What the hell kind of name is MISSED ABORTION? What bastard came up with that? Must’ve been a man. Only a man OB would send me home to grow a dead baby for a week and torture myself with the hope beyond hope…” and on and on the mind-fucking goes.*

I struggled with what to post because, somewhere, people thought I was brave and ok, and handling this with grace. I am so glad I can pull the wool over your eyes so well. Grace? Not-so-much. Honesty? Too much. Humor? As a coping mechanism.

See, the highlight of my weekend away was the abundance of water and time outdoors to breathe fresh air and watch the sun dip behind the silhouette of the Olympic mountains. But the low point of the weekend was walking in to the wrong building at the doctor office (where I had even *more* blood drawn) and finding a birth class on break with ten to twelve very pregnant women walking around with their partners and me waiting for my uterus to give up what I already know: there is no baby there anymore.

I bawled as we stepped out the door and couldn’t explain why. I’m not unhappy for those women. I’m not jealous that they are a month (at most) away from not sleeping, postpartum hormones and major life changes they will question in the bathroom on the floor at 2am. I’m not even jealous of the wonderful person they get to fall in love with and watch learn how to hold his/her neck and learn to focus on objects further than his/her nose. I’m not, in any way, dreading the birth of a baby of two good friends of mine. I’m looking forward to being there, days later, when one of my best friends brings her new son home and I can’t wait to see JB grow into her roll as big sister. I have no problem aching to hold him and knowing it is not my turn right now. I am ok with that.

Mostly.

I think, as I sat by the water staring into the rocks submitting to the water’s ebb, I figured out that I am not as sad for the loss of this child as I am the loss of the pregnancy. I’m not interested in debates on “when life begins” because life started the day I took an ovulation test, called up Mr. Flinger and told him to get his ass (and sperm making pieces especially) home. Life started the day I told people I was pregnant, with so much glee, even more than last time, because we wanted it now. We had a plan and OHMYGOD we are just so fertile it actually worked! That, for me, is when this all happened. So what, if I’m not sad for the loss of this child, is it that I was crying for? If I am being honest, I think I am jealous that the anxiety/fear/unknown portion of pregnancy is almost over for these women. I told Mr. Flinger, “I only need ONE MORE PREGNANCY. Just one. That’s it. ONE.” I was not a calm pregnant lady last time and I attribute some of this to hormones but also, my real deep seated inability to be in control of the situation and my lack of willingness to just “accept” that someone else might have another plan for me. I have a belief that I know what?s best. I like to keep it that way. And what?’ best right now is for me to get just ONE MORE pregnancy over.

If you ask me. Which nobody did.

I want a complete family. I want to take my two children to the park and watch them play together, or even fight together, and learn to live in the same car together with all those stupid “I"m not touching you!” games and I?ll yell over the backseat, “LB! Stop torturing your brother!” and Mr. Flinger and I will smile slyly at each other because we are complete now.

I want that so much that I actually did burst in to tears at the puddle park on Friday when I saw the cutest little family with a three year old and a 6 month old and they played together and the baby drooled on her mom’s arm and the dad took the older one to play at the fountain. I want it so much that I cried, again, in the grocery store as a very ragged mom with two boys, exactly 2 years and 5 days apart, she said, but who’s counting?, tried to keep her two year old from stealing cookies and the baby cried to be held. I want it so much, that I’ll be willing to do this all over again. The fear, the anxiety, the nausea of the first trimester.

What I’ve learned is that I know what to say now, or rather, I know what not to say. I know not to tell someone to “calm down” and that “it’s because you’re stressed out that you miscarried.” Not only will that sentence cause an already vulnerable person to burst in to tears but it heaps on a multitude of guilt she already is thinking on her own. “It’s my fault! My body sucks! My body hates me! I did something to deserve this!” and simply saying it’s because she was stressed adds the “shit! I need to not stress out! How the hell do I ...” and the circle goes until she self combusts.

I will not want to remember this baby. I don’t think that makes me insensitive. I think it is how I am coping with a tragic, and unfortunate situation. I do not feel the need to personalize him in to someone I will miss years down the road. Instead, I want to fix it. I want to understand. I want answers. And I want to get pregnant again, I want to obsess all the hell much I want because I have a right to do that, and I want to feel the baby moving inside me and the hormones wrecking total havoc on my mental health until I cry because I?m in love with someone I haven’t met in the real world yet, but that I know more than any other human, aside from my daughter, and who only knows me.

I want that. And that is what I want to hear.

So, I know it’s silly, and it’s not really being brave, and it is not, by any stretch of definition, being “graceful” but I want to hope for just a few more days. I want to keep the dream alive until it’s not alive anymore. I want to not think about the “dead baby” in my uterus, but rather the child that for the rest of his entire life, I can torture with “you were SUCH a pain in the ass even before you were a full month in utero!” because that?s going to cause a lot of bills in therapy that I think would be so worth it just to have him here.

And if he’s not here, and if it’s not my turn, I’ll be ok. I can promise you this, I won’t be graceful about it. But I will be ok.

*Thanks to Nicole of Sitting Still for the reminder to stop mind-fucking myself. Best. Advice. Ever.
** Thanks to Dee and Jenny for the wonderful compliments.

Because y?all need to read more about my fun-with-hormones, thought I?d let y?all know what the doctor said and the lube party that ensued. There hasn?t been this much action in my hayhay since conception. Party? Understatement.

After yet another HCG draw today, I got to see my actual OB. I brought Mr. Flinger (keeping LB from sucking on the ear instrument or playing with the stirrups) to be sure the doc didn?t say ?you?re going to be fine? and I hear ?you?ll be barren for life, might as well get the adoption option started.?  This, roughly, is how things went. (Words of Dr. H in green)

?Well, [bust in to full paragraph here]... [take deep breath and see if he?s not passed out, rolling his eyes or sipping vodka in his flask].. So, I started feeling pain on my left side, googled, freaked out, and here I am.?