This past week I’ve been asked some form of the question, “So, are you guys going to try for another one?” on three separate occasions. This week alone, and from complete strangers. I’m so sick of feigning a sweet smile and mumbling, “Yeah… we’ll see.”, that I think the next time someone asks me I’m just going to say, “No, I can’t. My uterus fell out last week.” just to silence them. I don’t care if I’m the killjoy of the sandbox. I KNOW they’re only making small talk: moms bonding over the wonders of pregnancy and family building, but my reproductive plans aren’t anyone’s business. Your reproductive plans aren’t any of MY business, either.
I think of people I care about who have battled fertility challenges, and I can only IMAGINE how often they were asked things like, “So, any plans to start a family? Are you trying?”. Maybe it’s not just the hormonal ebb and flow of IVF treatments that make some women a little emotional: I know if I had to constantly sate nosy curiosities I’d be a little bit stabby, also. Plus, the commonly used term “trying to conceive” seems so personal. I mean, hello? That means having sex. You just asked some total stranger if she’s actively fucking her husband without protection. Excellent.
Almost exactly a year ago from this day, I got knocked up. We were thrilled. Actually, while browsing through my husband’s iphone photos just last week, I came across a picture he had taken 11 months ago of the two positive tests laying side by side. I had never seen that picture before, and the unexpectedness took my breath away for a moment. Like any couple that finds out they’ve got a bun in the oven, we immediately found ourselves gravitating towards a nickname. You often hear things like “Bean” and “Peanut”, but we started calling the baby, Goose. Whether or not we watched Top Gun a few times on TBS, or were heavily affected by the culling of the geese last summer in Prospect Park (Nice. We named the fetus after dead birds in the local park. Fuck. What’s wrong with us?): Goose was the nickname. Goose made me nauseous. Goose made me sleepy. Goose made me dizzy. The usual pregnancy woes.
Now, I have talked about how OCD I was during my first pregnancy. I was so uptight and anxiety-ridden I swear I was holding LJ inside my uterus using the powers of sheer terror. I called that OB every second of every day, and ended up having a god-awful delivery that still makes me gag to think about no matter how cute my 3-year-old might be. Goose baby, though… this pregnancy would be different. After making the switch to the local midwives, I was told there was no need for a prenatal appointment until I was about 10 weeks along. (10 weeks?! It was maddening.) Fighting the urge to scour a medical supply website for the finest home ultrasound machine money could buy, I tried my best to chill out and just enjoy being pregnant (like everyone else seemed to do… except me). We watched my belly grow; became excited at the thought of our LJ as a big sister; stressed over our miniscule, urban living arrangement, and decided on a shortlist of names. Ruby: if Goose turned out to be a girl.
At the end of August, 2 days before my first scheduled appointment with the midwives, I had a miscarriage. I was ten weeks, but Goose had stopped developing at 7.
At this point in my life, I have known many, many women who have miscarried. You probably do, too, although nobody ever talks about it. Ever. When my friends silently suffered pregnancy losses in the past, I was always one of the people who struggled. I didn’t know what to say, how to support them, what to do. I’m sure I said the wrong things, like, “What’s meant to be, will be.” or “You’ll try again and everything will be ok.”. (Both of those things SUCK, by the way. Do not, under any circumstances, say them.). My awkwardness in dealing with someone else’s grief makes me cringe to even think about. Now I know better.
About 4 days after the loss I peeled myself off the couch and decided to walk LJ to the playground to see her best friend. The sun was shining, LJ was smiling: it felt good to be out of the apartment. Healthy. Immediately upon entering the playground, an adorable little blonde girl with the most charming English accent started following us around. She was about 6 years old and had on the kind of mismatched, striped tights with a tutu and t-shirt outfit only a first grader could put together. While LJ toddled around this girl chatted me up about everything from rainbows and beaches, to school and sushi rolls. She was this tiny ball of imaginative awesomeness. Then she asked me, suddenly, if I wanted to know her name.
“It’s Ruby”.
I cried. No, let me rephrase that. I bawled so instantly that I made this primal screechy, retchy sound right in this sweet girl’s face, stammered, “That’s a beautiful name. I’m sorry.”, turned my back and walked away. My friend saw me, gave me a hug, let me sit on the ground and cry for a bit behind my sunglasses until I got my shit together enough to walk home.
Three weeks passed, and I was crawling out of my hole. I had gotten pissed, grieved, and was beginning to feel some sense of peace. Then, the doctor associated with the midwives called late one Tuesday night. It was 9:30 at night, three weeks after the miscarriage. He told me that my pathology report came back and showed signs of a partial molar pregnancy. I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, and all I could think of while hearing the term “molar pregnancy” was something like this:
But it wasn’t about teeth. Or a vagina dentata, but that’s all I envisioned. While the doctor was saying terms like this:
“weekly blood work”
“tumor”
“cancerous”
“chemotherapy”
“You have to wait an entire year until you can try to conceive again.”
In my delirium, disbelief and minor hysteria my mind just kept coming back to:
Turns out, a molar pregnancy is a really rare pregnancy complication (having nothing to do with teeth) that occurs when the fetus ceases to develop normally, and is rapidly overtaken by abnormal cells. Kind of like a tumor. If the abnormal cells are not all removed from your body, they can burrow into the uterine walls (now picturing tiny teeth digging into a uterus) and become cancerous, requiring chemotherapy treatments. It’s just one of those freak things; not at all genetic; there was nothing I could have done to prevent it; and I didn’t do anything wrong to cause it. Just a shitty miscarriage with a fancy name, really. For about 6 weeks I had to go for weekly blood draws to make sure my hormone levels reached zero. If they had plateaued or started to rise, that would have meant there was a tumor and I would have been sent to the oncologist. That means, for those 6 weeks I was a nail-biting basket case. Really. Probably unbearable, but I was so deep in my head stressing about how I’d take care of LJ if I had to go through chemo, I didn’t give a shit if I was acting crazy. I had the right to be a little nutty.
Everything went smoothly, though, and no chemo was needed. So for the past 9 months or so, we’ve just been waiting. Waiting to get the all-clear from the doctor to take the goalie off the ice. Living our lives, loving our tiny family and learning how to cope when things go wrong: but definitely waiting. LJ deserves to be a big sister. I’m starting to feel sappy when I see tiny babies all wrapped up in their Ergos and Moby wraps. My ovaries are aching. (Did I just say that out loud? I’m such a chick.)
Maybe next time someone asks me why I haven’t had another baby yet I’ll lie to them and say I had a vagina dentata, just for a laugh. Maybe I’ll just carry around a print-out of this post in my tote bag, autographed and footnoted for all the nosy women out there.
We’ll just have to wait and see what’s in store for us.
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