Goodbye Little Bean

WARNING! THIS POST IS LONG AND DEPRESSING. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
On March 21 of this year, I found out I was 5 weeks pregnant. A week and a half later and unbeknownst to the rest of my body, my little bean stopped growing and ceased to be alive. In my 9th week, I went for an ultrasound and watched the technician shake her head and frown as she looked in vain for movement and a heartbeat. I had had a miscarriage. 25% of pregnant women miscarry in the first trimester. It’s a known fact. It’s scientifically accepted. Unfortunately, I happened to be in the 25% - it’s not like it’s the first time something didn’t quite work out for me.

Funny thing is, from the moment the nurse told me I was definitely pregnant, although I was excited, what I felt the most was apprehension - a feeling of impending bad news. The feeling you get when your organic chem. professor asks you to stop by during office hours to discuss your progress. I mean, it could be something great, but it’s probably not.

So, I waited a whole day to tell my husband. I waited 2 days to tell my parents. I waited a week to tell a best friend. Then, I didn’t tell anybody else. Even as I shared the good news, everyone asked me, “Well, are you excited?” They weren’t asking to be polite. They were asking because my usually bubbly self was less than. Hubby was literally floating around the house everyday on clouds, he was so happy. I swore everyone to secrecy. I didn’t want anyone else to know – because I didn’t want to have to tell them bad news later. When my mom asked if she could share the news with the rest of the people at home who love me, I told her to only tell people that she won’t be uncomfortable telling them that something bad happened and there was no longer a baby. What kind of monster does that? Well, not a monster; but a person that has spent the last few years breathing and meditating; lying in corpse pose, or half lotus just being “aware” of her body. So, even though my brain (subconscious? psyche? inner-self?) new that something was not right, my body didn’t. I started fluffing up a bit in the hips and tummy. My breasts were tender. My uterus continued to expand. Yet, my mind is yelling at me “SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT!” Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore! I called my midwife and bullied her into giving me the ultrasound a week earlier. I told her point blank that I felt something had gone wrong and it was killing me not to know.

I don’t feel bad about miscarrying. There was nothing that could be done to prevent it. I feel horrible about being such a downer and walking around the house in tears for 3 weeks because I “had a bad feeling”; while my husband was making plans on what kind of cute maternity outfits he was going to buy me. I feel even worse for not displaying any emotions when my fears were confirmed as I watched my big, strapping, hulk of a husband wilt and lose his composure at the news. I can’t help it; I had been mourning the loss of my baby for weeks already. Everyone thought I was just being wary because I’ve never been pregnant. I knew!

I’m pissed because my first positive pregnancy test, my first ultrasound, my first OB visit – all these things were WASTED on a baby that was never to be. I’m sad that my parents have to wait infinitely before their only daughter, who ain’t getting any younger by the way, will finally produce a grandchild for them to spoil. It breaks my heart that my husband, who was so visibly happy, excited and expectant had to sit next to me and listen for a tiny heartbeat that would never be.

The final insult was having to take an abortion pill to finally expel the remnants of a life from my uterus. The physical pain of it was almost too much to bear (even through the narcotics my midwife so graciously supplied), but the emotional trauma of expelling my dead baby will never be erased from my mind.

Crack addicts, stupid teenagers, welfare abusing baby-factories – these people get pregnant at the thought of unprotected sex. I, a responsible half of a financially stable, loving married couple, get a miscarriage. Ah, life. Of course, I realize that it wasn’t meant to be at this time for us. We will try again for as long as it takes. But, damn! Can a sista get a baby of her own?