This has been a pretty difficult week. A death in the family, a $2200 and rising car mechanic's bill, and a dashed pregnancy hope. I've had false hope before in this via crucis of infertility, but I've always hardened myself so much that I hardly felt the sting. Making myself more vulnerable this time, it's never hurt so much. There were too many signs pointing to it this time.
Early this week, after looking at my chart, my NFP instructor instantly ordered a blood pregnancy test. "I've already taken a home test and it was negative," I said, steeling myself against any renewed hope. She insisted, "sometimes those can be wrong, every sign on your chart is pointing to it, and if you are pregnant we'd need to know right away, for the baby's sake."
It was a 2-day test HCG test. On the day between the tests I indulged thoughts I've never allowed myself to think before. I started daydreaming about pink dresses and hair ribbons and nursing and bedtimes and baths and soft fuzzy hair. I was picking out a local OB/GYN for the delivery, plotting out how to make my nieces' school year shorter so I could break in April for the baby, and looking up birthing books and classes. I had convinced myself in those 24 hours that I actually was pregnant. I was scheming an elaborate way to deliver the ecstasy-inducing news to my husband. Hearing from the doctor at this point, I thought, was just a formality.
A day into my daydreaming I got a call from my doctor's nurse. "Wow," I thought as I called her back, "I must be so pregnant they don't even need the second test." On the exterior I was acting doubtful and pessimistic; but I'd allowed myself the extravagance of hope.
"Your HCG level is a 3. The Dr. says you don't need to go back for the second test, you're not pregnant. I'm sorry."
Just like that, and it was all over.
"You're not pregnant." The words kept echoing as I struggled to comprehend their meaning. It may as well have been: "You're useless. Your marriage is sterile and fruitless. You're worthless as a woman. You're barren nothingness." I don't believe those words for a second, but for emotion's sake "you're not pregnant" felt the same as any of the others.
It's humiliating. It's devastating. It's agony. An emotional miscarriage.
Now the grieving process begins anew.
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1. I'm drinking more water. I usually wait until my lips are chapped and my throat is sore before slaking my thirst, but I'm an adult and need to take care of myself. 8 glasses a day it is.
2. I've lost eight pounds. Refocusing negative energy towards a positive goal is a small way to bring good out of suffering. By the grace of God, the intercession of my recently deceased Aunt, and a little renewed will power, I'm hoping to stay on this path.
3. I haven't gone to bed any night this week without having first done the dishes. It's easier to get up in the morning if the kitchen is clean.
Be encouraged. Read others' small successes this week and share your own.
Be encouraged. Read others' small successes this week and share your own.
