Confession time

The main reason I stopped blogging? It had always been a source of comfort when dealing with tough situations. But suddenly, it was a reminder of terrible things and failure.

You see, since my post about my grandmother dying, we adopted two cats and had a child. He's two now. But while those things, plus a few job changes, ate up my time, it was the impossible road leading to parenthood that was the true issue.

I'll say it here, semi-publicly, for the first time ever: My son is not my first child.

In fact, his siblings all fit on one hand, and he's the finger on my other hand.

They call this a rainbow baby. I shy from the term, but only because it seems too schmaltzy. But he is quite the definition of one: a terrible rainstorm with a bright and lovely rainbow.

In 2012, you may have assumed that my big news would be a pregnancy announcement. It would have been. But while evacuated laterally at my parents' house during Isaac, just one day after heading to the entire in-laws clan to share the news, I started bleeding. I spent hours in the ER. A friend who worked there saw my name on the list and came to see us. He didn't know. Very few people knew. He tried to be encouraging. But I knew. I was 10 weeks

There was the invasive ultrasound and the silent technician. There was the long wait until my room was ready. They called us back. I spent an hour standing in the hallway because the room wasn't actually ready. They finally stuck me in a room. I waited again. They finally admitted that there were no rooms with tables capable of a pelvic exam. A doctor finally came in. They stuck a bucket under me to lift my pelvis to a better angle. The unfeeling man who saw me coldly said the pregnancy was ending and they would call my doctor to let her know. I hadn't even been in to see her yet. My husband had to go to work. My mother was with me. A nurse brought me an awful packet on grief and they sent me on my way. There was calling my husband to tell him and his boss letting him leave. My parents gave me their bed until our power was back following the storm. There was buying incontinence liners to sit on and giant pads for more than a week. I missed a week of work.

The process itself was... excruciating. I will never forget it and can never speak of it. When I was finally in labor for real, I knew that I knew labor already. I'd passed my almost 12-week fetus naturally. I vowed never again.

I missed another week of work. I came back different. Foggy. Joyless. Faking every step and smile and move. Coworkers who knew brought me food and flowers and gifts. Those who didn't know kept me at arm's length

That was September 2012. I was pregnant again right before Christmas. My friend was also pregnant, with her second. We were four days apart. My doctor always wanted me early to keep an eye on things. When she saw an empty sac, she wasn't too concerned. Come back next week! Repeat for 11 weeks, schedule a D and C. Agonize over it. You're pro-choice, it's not really an abortion. But you feel nausea and breast tenderness and exhaustion and bloat. Your body thinks it's doing its job. It's not. And pro-choice means you should be able to choose to carry the child. My choice was taken from me.

The night before the procedure, you go to the NFL experience. The Super Bowl was in town that Sunday. You walk in a daze and clutch your husband tight. The next day will be bad. You did pre-op earlier. They made you do a pregnancy test. You explain why you're there. The one nurse seems to want to convince you to wait because maybe the ultrasounds, the ones you had every week and twice that morning, and maybe the blood work, which shows high HCG are not correct. You cry. The sac is empty. You failed again.

You hear excited med students in the waiting area. They are on the ob/gyn rotation. They watched births that morning. They were reverent. You let tears pour down your face.

The day of, you silently ride to the hospital. You check in. Your doctor is late. She's not a morning person, but you love her and wait. They roll you out. When you come to, you can't stop coughing because your throat is irritated from the tube. They bring you, totally fucked up, to your room. Your husband doesn't seem well. You're bleeding for more than a week. Only pads allowed. And it's time to bring back incontinence liners again. This first weekend in February, 2013, is awful. But you're glad you opted for surgery. Easier to push forward and no laboring Just... sadness.

You go to work Monday because you need to be busy. You're probably anemic from blood loss and feeling extreme depression. The counselor passes by and sees you propping yourself up on a cabinet, pale and blank-faced. She goes to the office and arranges a sub. Sends you home. Offers to drive you. You make it home and cry.

You never are able to look at your friend's son. You constantly imagine the life you should be living you can't ha doe swing him grow up. It's nothing personal.

In June, you're pregnant again. You told many people about the first. You tell less people about the second. You've been embarrassed. People get uncomfortable. You tell minimal people. Most find out when you decline 4th of July plans. No one knows what to say.

No one, except your in-laws. Your husband waits until he can say it and calls them. He tells them bad news when they didn't even know about the good news. They tell him it's because you don't go to church. They say you need to go so you can receive blessings. They tell him he will go to Hell, and that makes them sad that he won't join them in heaven. Sorry, assholes, you've got it backward. You're not supposed to know their reaction. You secretly hate them for three years until you explode and confront them. They gaslight you. You excommunicate them from your life unless you're chaperoning their visits with your son.

You find out the next June that you're finally pregnant for a 4th time. It's 2014. Almos a whole year has passed. Surely, your body will get it right.

Your whole family goes to Philadelphia for your cousin's wedding. Well. Not everyone. One cousin had twins a month before and another cousin gave birth while you traveled. Everyone you know gets pregnant quickly and easily. You start hiding profiles from your social media timelines. You skip every baby shower and christening and kid birthday party. You become reclusive. But you're pregnant with number 4. You feel nausea and tire easily. The doctor thinks it will be good. You finally get an ultrasound printout. It's too early to see a heartbeat. You go on your trip. Doctor calls with blood work results. It's not great, but it's in viability range. You fly home and use the restroom at the airport. Blood. You give up on joy. You curse the powers that be. You meltdown when a former student announces a pregnancy. Unmarried. No degree. Bar tending. Kind of a screw up. A lovable one. But you can't look.

It's over before you can call the doctor. No time to schedule a procedure. Just like last time. June of 2014 is all despair. You're a shell of yourself.

Those are the "official ones." But there was one more in January. You were at the "PMS or pregnancy" stage. You pick a day. If I'm not bleeding by then, time to buy a test. So you start to bleed one morning. The next day, you're at work. You get what you think are the worst "day2" cramps ever. You bum pain meds off a coworker. You go home. The tampon slides out with a cascade of blood. You wipe. What is this? You know. You've only seen that one other time. You almost pass out. You are inconsolable. You know what has happened. You hate your body. You resign yourself to a different life than what you planned. You bitch online to a friend who lost three before her daughter. You're grateful for each other. No one else knows what to say or do. Number 4 was known to your doctor and your spouse. Number 5 was known by you and your husband. Clearly, it ran its course. You never mention it to your doctor.

Early April 2015 you start to wonder. You go to Easter and half-heartedly drink a beer. You've always faked abstaining when pregnant. You say to hell with it. If I am not, I miss out. If I am, it will end in heartache and you'll have missed a free beer for nothing. You still feel guilty but know you're early enough.

The next day is your 13th wedding anniversary. You test secretly. It's positive. You show it with no emotion to your husband. You hug. You go about your day. You have progesterone pills and pain pills. You're covered no matter which way it goes. You've been to your doctor and your specialist a million times. They draw so much blood. They discover you have a single copy mutation of MTHFR gene. You learn your body throws out clots that choke out your babies. You have to take aspirin every day for the rest of your life. You need a special prescription vitamin in addition to prenatals. You take the progesterone. If you can make it to eight weeks this time, you'll call your doctor. You do. They schedule you for the next day. Three work friends are pregnant. You suspect another is. She is. But you don't find out until July. One friend never tells you. You hear through the grape vine. That hurts. Another friend over shares with you. That hurts even more. The third friend tells you in person in a delicate way. She doesn't share details or complain like the second did. Another work friend ends up pregnant. This baby better survive.

The doctor appointment gets postponed a week because the office has no power since a tornado hit that street. You finally go. There's no need to bring the husband. You get a heartbeat. It's strong. Your blood work is good. You go back every week, from week 9-34. You see the specialist at 11, 15, 22, and 36 weeks. At 34 weeks, you go twice a week for NSTs. You are close personal friends with the doctor and her staff. Two more friends are pregnant. Another friend's girlfriend is pregnant. Another friend you never see is pregnant. You get asked to be a bridesmaid in another friend's wedding. It's in a hurry. She's pregnant. You don't know it, but you are one week pregnant when she tells you. Her wedding is in 16 weeks. You hope you'll still be pregnant because she'll be at 22 weeks and you'll be 17. You hide the pregnancy. Family knows. But most find out in July. Some friends know. Most don't. If you don't see a person, they don't need to know. You insist no one post about it on social media.

You make it. They induce a week early. You hold him. He cries. You're finally breathing again. You're fiercely protective. You hate that. But you're glad.