Ruined Summer, Worse Fall

 My mother arrived and two days later I found myself staring at a positive pregnancy test. It was not my plan for the summer. My summer was going to be a hot girl summer with my mom, exploring Europe, losing weight, packing the fun in until the summer exploded with joy. Instead, a wave of nausea washed over me and week after week of me laying in a lump on the couch, wishing there was SOMETHING that would take away the ever-present nausea. But hopes built and despite feeling like I had wasted my mom’s time and money having her come out to visit the limp-lump version that I had become in the throes of the first trimester, I found myself dreaming about this future baby and felt okay with suffering. This is my last time. Last baby. Soak it all up. 

Second trimester, I said goodbye to my mom and hello to the joys of the pregnant glow. We made more announcements, I had a dramatic decrease in nausea, and a whole lot more energy. Soaking it up. This is the last time! 

Midwife appointments brought some joy, hearing the heartbeat, getting comfortable with this person who will see me at my most vulnerable. But some stress… my shy veins resulted in some dramatic bruising… and it was all very expensive. 

I felt so good. I told anyone who cared to listen. My second-born decided he wanted a baby sister. And he was going to name her Treehouse. But I wanted a boy. Two of each. I had the perfect boy named picked out. I had so much hope. And I was soaking it up. Cuz this was going to be my last time. 

I didn’t know it was actually my first time. My first time wiping blood. My first time rushing to my neighbor’s house. My first time driving to the hospital. My first time hearing they couldn’t see a heartbeat, but that my body was already in labor. 

Surrounded by the most loving, decent, hard-working ladies in the world, I cried and joked and hurt and eased a teeny tiny still baby into this world. 7 ounces. A perfect baby boy. He looked like an alien. He was supposed to be the bow that tied up this phase of my life… the last baby. But now I have to sit here holding a version of humanity I never really wanted to witness face to face… he fit in one hand. He wasn’t quite a person. Just an empty vessel where a soul was supposed to be. 

Part of me is sad I did it alone. Part of me is glad my husband wasn’t able to be there. How do you comfort someone else when your grief is so huge? How do you let someone else carry you, when you just want to curl up and disappear. 

I was almost halfway done. I was one day shy of being able to say, “Halfway there!” 19 weeks. And 6 days. Barely even counts as a stillbirth, still young enough to sort of be considered a miscarriage. By one day. 

My milk will still come in. Postpartum depression. But with all the complications of not taking my baby home with me. 

My summer started with a reroute, a sudden change in the direction I had thought I was going. My fall has started so much worse.