Lily

In January 2010 it had been six months since the last miscarriage, and I was beginning to lose hope. I had given up on that particular cycle because N was going to be out of town during my fertile days. I began to pray, “God, please just give me a normal cycle, so I will know that it is possible.” Even though I was praying that specific prayer, I was shocked when I ovulated on CD14. That had never never never happened for as long as I had been charting.
I was even more shocked when my temperature stayed elevated for seventeen days past ovulation, and I was ecstatic with joy when the pregnancy test was positive. And I had such a positive outlook on the pregnancy—why would God go through the trouble if he didn’t mean for me to keep it?

In my fifth week I went to my GP for bloodwork. I really wanted to having doubling HcG so I could relax and enjoy being pregnant. My first set of numbers was excellent—2903 at five weeks and three days. The second blood draw was on a Thursday, so I had to make it through the weekend before getting the results.
On Friday, February 5th there was a snowstorm for the history books. The city shut down. Our power went out, so we had no electricity and no heat. N ad I had fun “roughing it” for the first couple of days, and finally our utilities were working again on Sunday evening, just in time for the Superbowl. Then that night while I was lying in bed trying to go to sleep, I realized that my breasts had stopped hurting, and fear descended. I knew something was horribly wrong. I was exactly six weeks at that point.

The doctor herself called me late the next morning. Just the fact that it was the doctor calling and not a nurse confirmed what I feared. I don’t remember the specific number, but it was in the 3000’s. I didn’t really hear what she said after that. All I could think was, “It’s over”.
The city remained shut down for the rest of the week. My work was closed. And I was confined to the house, waiting for my baby to die. I can’t even articulate the horror I felt.

One day that week Older Sister called me and, knowing we had been snowed in for the better part of a week, she jokingly asked me if I was pregnant yet. I danced around the subject for a while, but in the end I couldn’t lie. Yes, I was pregnant. But I wouldn’t be for long.
Days past without any bleeding or cramps, and I began to think that maybe the doctor had been wrong; maybe my baby was still alive.

But the next Sunday, when I was seven weeks, I started to spot brown blood. I went to work that Monday, but I was plagued by a feeling of malaise and ended up going home a few hours early. I called off sick the next morning, February 16. The bleeding had not picked up but the cramps were so intense that I could barely get out of bed.

The ordeal lasted nine hours. Thinking back on it now sends me into a mindless panic. The cramps came and went like contractions, and it felt as though my womb was being ground between two stones. When I was contracting the pain was so bad that I couldn’t see or think or talk. I still wasn’t bleeding very much, and I began to question my decision to miscarry at home. I began to think I might really die.

Then, late in the evening I started bleeding very heavily, and soon after the child left my body. I was empty once again.

I don’t have happy memories of that pregnancy like I do of my first. I know I was happy at the beginning, but those feelings are obscured by the isolation, terror, and pain that I felt later. When people refer to that snowstorm it makes me feel panicky and I come close to tears. I hate the month of February. I hate the number sixteen. I hate snow. That pregnancy and miscarriage changed me; I struggle with it every single day.

And I think the reason I have struggled with it so much is because I didn't allow anyone to help me bear it. To this day, Older Sister is the only one who knows about my Lily.

It was six months ago today.