the waiting game

My routine over the past few weeks has involved going to the lab, having blood drawn, and then waiting for results. I am expecting a call from my doctor’s office tomorrow, and although hoping for good news, there is a part of me that isn’t ready for this to be over (as much as one of the last things I want to do is go back on Monday and have more blood drawn).

When I first found out that most likely this pregnancy was ectopic, my focus was literally on me not blowing up. My goal was to avoid a trip to the emergency room and the likelihood of surgery.

When I was told that I was a good candidate for the drug treatment, I was somewhat relieved, although my goal remained the same. There was a chance that it wouldn’t work. I wanted to avoid the emergency room, especially over St. Patrick’s Day weekend.

And then when it did work, I was more relieved, although I knew I was still not completely out of the water. Although it was unlikely, there was a small possibility that something could still go wrong. Plus, I still needed to somehow get through weekly blood draws until my HGC levels were back to zero. My goal here was to not have a panic attack and/or pass out or cause a scene at the lab. So far, I have been successful in that regard.

I think though that when I get the call that my hormone levels are back to normal and I am no longer “pregnant” (hormonally, at least), a whole new reality presents itself. And I fear it is going to hit me hard.

It isn’t that I haven’t cried over this. I have. There was one point where I honestly thought that I could not cry another tear.

I have written  journal entries in my paper diary about some of what I have been feeling. I have reached out to a few of my friends, and at least told them what has happened. I have talked to B about it as well. We had a few really rough nights.

But through all of that, I always had something else in the back of my mind. Mostly it was, don’t blow up! And I suppose on some level, it felt like I was still able to hold onto hope, even though I knew I was watching it die.

I think that when I am finally cleared, it will be like standing there naked, with nothing. I will be forced to cross a threshold that I have no idea what is waiting for me on the other side. It isn’t that I don’t know loss. I just don’t know this one.

One of the things that my major losses all have in common is that I was not given a normal outlet to grieve. I didn’t attend my grandmother’s funeral, nor was I able to attend my mother’s. When my sister died nine years ago, I didn’t find out until a year later, and as far as I know, there wasn’t a funeral to attend anyway. With this loss, once again, I find myself with no clear path.

I try to be rational and look at it as more of the loss of a pregnancy than the loss of a child. I know that that may seem odd, and perhaps cold, but the reality is that this was a cluster of cells about 3 cm long, that never stood a chance. They have been absorbed back into my bloodstream (as best as I understand how the drug works).

I never heard a heartbeat or felt a kick. I only really personally announced the pregnancy to a few people before we knew that there was a problem, so I was never overwhelmed by all the good wishes and hope from others. I really only had a week between the time I confirmed I was pregnant with a home pregnancy test, and the ultrasound that suggested it might be ectopic. I tried not to get attached in that time, but I guess that is impossible. Anyone who knows me, knows that it has been hope and grace that have always seen me through.

I was honestly at the point where I thought it would never happen for us. And then it did. It just seems so unfair and wrong. There are people literally across the globe who have wished this for us. Wanted for us to be parents.

I have lost my mother and my sister. I haven’t had contact with my father in over 25 years. I am not sure what I am supposed to take away or learn from this loss. I do not understand why. I cannot help but feel guilty, like I must have done something wrong. I really do not know how much more I can take. Also, I cannot express in words how very sorry I am to my husband.

While on bed rest, I decided to read John Green’s, The Fault in our Stars. I knew from the reviews that it was sad, and it would make me cry. I was left balling at this line, said by Peter Van Houten, who I think is truly the best character (in terms of being realistic):

Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you.

I am tired of being revealed. I am not sure what more I can show the world of myself.

on the night stand :: The Beginner’s Goodbye by Anne Tyler

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