Yesterday I was pregnant.
Today I am not.
Monday we went in for the confirmation ultrasound - because for some reason, no one ever believes me when I tell them that I know stuff. And despite the fact that I knew for an entire week there would be nothing there, I allowed myself just enough hope to not go absolutely crazy.
I may or may not have almost squeezed the ultrasound tech's arm right off before she started. And then ten seconds later, I went slowly and thoroughly to pieces. They allowed us to sit in the far part of the waiting room, in order for me not to upset all of the other lusciously pregnant women, I think.
All my crying and shaking scared the living daylights out of Tater. He kept putting his hand on my heart and saying, "Mama, don't cry. I fix it. It be ok."
Yesterday was the D&C. It was also what would have been my sister's 37th birthday. And, in my weakened and dramatic state, I kept looking up at heaven and saying, "Happy birthday! Please take care of my baby."
I mean, it's a baby, right? Even if the sac was empty? The first one to contradict me gets it right in the kisser.
D&Cs are really no big deal at all. You head in, they hook you up, you wait for the doctor for 900 years, they give you some good meds to knock you out, and before you know it, you're in recovery telling everyone what a champion you are, demonstrating loudly on how beautiful your fingernails are, and having side effects from the anesthesia that includes whipping your head wildly from side to side and wondering why on earth no one is stopping it.
They keep telling you to open your eyes and you're all like, "I will open my eyes when I'm damn good and ready, thank you very much. Maybe you should open YOUR eyes."
Then they roll you off the bed, make you get dressed, and you go home.
And you wonder over and over again why something that took you over 2.5 years to get takes less than 10 minutes to get rid of. And then you think about those who have elective abortions to get rid of something you so desperately want and you want to throttle them. Thankfully, I was safely in the car before I started talking loudly about that.
Here I am a day later. No real physical pain to speak of beyond a somewhat sore back and lower belly ache. And it might be the truly the only time in my life where I wish for pain of some kind. Like to validate that there was something there. I guess it really must be a blessing that no one can see broken hearts.
Husband has the day off and has his trusty tools of food and cleaning myself up to ward off any postpartum depression that might sneak up as the doctor warned it could. Not on his watch, by God.
He took both kids with him to drop the one off at school and while he was gone, I finally cried just like I wanted to with no fear of upsetting anyone. There was wailing and I might have thrown something if I didn't already know that if it broke, I'd be the one who'd have to clean it up.
And everyone keeps talking about "next time". Next time when this happens, remember this. Next time when this happens, remember that. NEXT TIME?! Good gosh, if this happens again, just put me in a straight jacket in a padded room.
And then the thought sneaks into my head....next time, I will hire a nice lady that I don't even know to rub my back, play with my hair, spoon me, and rock me to sleep.
God, that there will be a next time. But you know, with a baby and stuff.