What can happen in the span of three weeks? Let me tell you…
In three weeks’ time, you can hope and pray for a positive OPK, you can swear on day 21 that it won’t happen, you can be turned into a liar on day 22, you can celebrate your 4th anniversary with your husband the same day, you can dine but not wine and come home with the type of movie that the two of you never watch because you’ve just been too embarrassed to (in all honesty), and you can spend a passionate night together, and then you can wait. You can wait for your BBT to rise, you can wait for the first tingle in your breast or the first wave of nausea, you can wait the longest three minutes of your life to see if it’s one pink line or two. In just three weeks, you can go from hoping and praying to knowing. Knowing that not only did you ovulate (finally!) but you conceived.
In the span of three weeks, you can see those two pink lines and feel the weight finally lift from your shoulders and quietly thank God. You can tell your husband, and your mom, and your sister, and the in-laws, and stop there because you don’t want to jinx it by telling too many people. You can take a road trip, and on the way home you can see a rainbow, and know it is a sign from Him, a promise fulfilled. You can start to worry because you don’t feel pregnant, you can pray more and go to church more, you can be told by everyone “just relax, the baby is fine, don’t stress, I promise everything is okay.” And then, one evening while you’re home alone, you can start to bleed. And the next day, at an ultrasound, you can hear those words you feared the most: “no heartbeat,” an echo through your head and heart that is as strong and constant as any heartbeat should be.
In just three short weeks, you can wake up one morning believing everything is okay and go to bed that night knowing that it’s not, and cry and cry and cry. And cry. You can cry until your eyes ache and your head hurts and it still doesn’t make the pain in your heart any less. You can ask God, why? Why me? Why my baby? Why now? You can feel guilt and shame, anger and despair, and an everlasting sadness that sits as deep in your soul as it can get. You can be told “it will get easier” and “you’ll get through this” and, already, “it’s time to move on and let go” and know in that instant that you’ll never let go of this baby you lost because whether he is here or There, he is still your child and you love him and always will. And just when things do seem to be getting a little better and you almost make it through a day without crying, someone says something that doesn’t sit right, and you cry some more.
How do I know this, you ask? Because this is a snapshot of the last nine weeks of my life. I was waiting, I was pregnant, and then I wasn’t. And I do not think I will ever be the same again.