Forty and Falling Apart {Part 2}

For many reasons, we chose to journey silently through the majority of the pregnancy.  We knew how it was going to end right from the start.  And at the age of forty, with the infertility history we had... where in the world do you even begin to try explain something like this to the general public...

It's been a few days since I first opened that first journal entry from the start of our "Journey To Faith" a year ago.  I'd only made it a short way in before having to close it.  I know how the story ends, I couldn't bring myself to relive all those details one more time.

But, for some reason, I'm feeling compelled to continue...  as most don't know the details within those journal pages.

 Missed the previous posts and start of our story? click HERE 

~~~Flashback Post~~~
Forty and Falling Apart (February 10, 2015) Part 2
 

"Is it... alive?" I very quietly whispered, both hands clutching my heart.   How in the ever lovin' world could there be a baby in there ~ and if there was it was surely not alive...

The tech moved the ultrasound wand from left to right, clicking, typing, measuring... my eyes glued to the screen up on the wall, my heart beating with a near defining pounding inside my ears and chest.

And then the baby moved on the screen, a little heartbeat clearly visible, its little hands clasped together in front of its chest.   My mind was racing with shock, awe, excitement, fear, unbelief, and every other possible emotion in between. I had a senior graduating from high school soon, I had been unable to get pregnant for the past seventeen years, I had JUST had a mammogram (which apparently you were NOT supposed to have if you were pregnant). I was turning forty next month for heaven’s sake! 

I can only imagine what I looked and sounded like during that appointment.

At the end of the appointment she said it looked like we were at the start of my second trimester. Second trimester?!? How could this even be ~ how possibly could I be twelve weeks pregnant?!? Yes, I had been feeling utterly horrible, but I had also been dealing with daily heavy, clotted bleeding for the last three months straight.  Never once had the thought of possibly being pregnant even entered my mind!!!

She went to look for the doctor to let him know this "change in events", but he was not in.  She then handed me a disc of images and said to call in the morning to make a followup appointment.

I looked down at the disc in my hand, full of photos... I'd brought two babies home from the hospital (one biological, one adopted) and never had access to either one of their ultrasound photos.  Now, all we would have would be the ultrasound photos, as this baby ~ we would never get to take home. The irony of this reality never fails to elude me.

I blindly walked out an emotional mess.  I had no idea how I was going to tell my husband.  We had dreamed of this moment for years. I had thought of so many ways to share the big news with him over the years, but I’d never had an opportunity to pick from any.  I finally collected myself, as I sat in the van in the hospital parking lot, and called him.  I just blurted it all out, over the phone, through my uncontrolled sobbing.

There was utter silence from the other end... utter silence... for a very long time. My heart was again racing and I feared the worse from his silent reaction.  He was merely just processing it all.  This was not exactly the fearful cancer or possible hysterectomy conversation we thought we might hear and had been trying to prepare for.

I don’t actually think either one of us quite knew if this news was any better though, as the underlying reality screamed "How can this even be... I've had so much heavy bleeding for the last three months straight... surely we're in the middle of a miscarriage..."

 I don’t remember much of the rest of that day, but I know neither of us slept at all that night.

For a tiny moment, through a highly guarded grip of fear, I had about an eighteen hour window between ultrasound appointment and the doctors appointment the following morning that I allowed myself to maybe hope with the smallest sliver of excitement.

Eighteen hours I wish I'd never been given...

{Click HERE to continue to our next journal entry.}
{previous post HERE}