Sixth time's the charm?

I definitely can't move to the present on here unless I hit recent past. So yes. Let's hit the tumultuous first trimester.

I wish I'd written everything down at the time. But my repeat losses stole so much from me. I definitely lost the ability to enjoy my pregnancy. In retrospect, I'm one of those odd birds who actually LOVED pregnancy. But at the time, it was terrifying.

As usual, I was experiencing the "PMS or pregnancy phase." Happened every few months. It was almost always PMS. It was occasionally pregnancy. Early April 2015's phase seemed to lag a bit longer and feel more intense. When you've been pregnant six times in less than three years, you get very in-tune with your body and what it says to you. Sunday, April 5, was Easter. I went to a family crawfish boil. My dad grabbed Abita Strawberry Lager for me. It's my go-to crawfish boil beer. Every time I was pregnant, I faked drinking. Or just didn't. I faked it one NYE with black disposable champagne flutes full of Coke. People could see bubbles though the cup and I made sure not to let anyone see the top. Things like that.

Whenever I abstained, there was a lot of lying and subterfuge. I knew from a friend who did IUI twice that the doctors said until you can get a positive test, drinking in moderation won't hurt. So I decided to Hell with it. I'd drink a single beer slowly all day. No sense in skipping my favorite seasonal beer because I'd more than likely lose this one, too. I hadn't tested yet, but planned to do so the next day. It had me officially very late if I woke up period-free. One beer wouldn't hurt. Either I'd be not pregnant in the morning or early enough.

I know this seems terrible. But my cynicism reached new heights during these three years. I know it probably makes me seem irresponsible. Or like I have a problem. But when you do everything right and still keep losing babies, you basically quit hoping for the best. So don't judge. I know many readers aren't drinkers. And I respect that. But when turning down a caffeinated beverage will get "What, are you pregnant?!" from people, refusing a single beer at a crawfish boil would be the same. And that's the last question you want to be asked when you're trying and failing or trying and succeeding or making the choice to never be or... any situation, really. Because it's no one else's business but yours.

Anyway, I nursed that last beer all day. And bought a fresh pack of tests. And said nothing to anyone.

The next day, April 6, was our 13th wedding anniversary. Mark works in evenings. I was off of school. We had plans to have lunch because we couldn't do dinner.

I woke up first, as usual. Wanted that good FMU. Positive. Woke Mark up. Let him be up a bit. Grabbed the test. Showed him. We gave each other faint smiles, hugged, and went to get lunch at a Mediterranean place. Did I want feta on things? Yes. Should I get it? Probably not. I was pregnant. But, like the beer, it would be a short-lived pregnancy again. Why deprive myself of something enjoyable? I got the feta.

There was no celebration. No tears. Just a neutral reaction. We'd been here too many times before.

Losses rob you of so much, least of all your joy and innocence. They take away the ability to relax. The ability to enjoy the ride. At my point in life, I lost a fun announcement. I lost the bravery to take belly pics. I lost the ability to just pee without fear for nine months. There are other things that will pop up later, too.


We made a game plan. I had progesterone pills to take to help sustain a pregnancy. I also had pain pills left from a previous loss. Both were well before expiration dates. I was set. I would only call my doctor at eight weeks or at the sign of bleeding. I had meds to help no matter which way things went. No need to involve her early on.

Four weeks later, I was still not bleeding. I made the appointment. My doctor always squeezes me in as soon as she can the day I get a positive test, which is around four weeks. She's the best. I will say that a million more times. I made an appointment during my planning period that afternoon. She could see me the next day. I asked for afternoon so that I could just say I had what seemed to be a normal doctor appointment and no one at work would suspect anything.

The next day found tornadoes around the metro area. I drove all the way out to the doctor, and the parking lot was empty. The trees on the street were obliterated a block down. Electrical poles were down. A tornado hit half a block away and they had no electricity and didn't know when it would return. They lost the phone lines, too, which is why I didn't get a call. A few days later I was able to rebook the appointment.

At nine weeks, I saw a bouncing blob with a strong heartbeat. I didn't believe it. I also wasn't out of the woods. I wouldn't tell anyone yet. My doctor was cautiously optimistic. We had never made it to a moving blob with a heartbeat before. I got a copy of the picture. It was only the second time I'd been able to do that.

They didn't get why I had gone so long without calling. But I did. I just couldn't take the false hope. Again. She told me to keep taking my aspirin and progesterone pills. Go back in one week.

Stepping back for a moment, April 29 was a date I dreaded. It coincided with a previous loss time period. I was also stuck on a whole school field trip in Mobile, Ala., that day. If it happened again, I knew that would be the day. I made it through, and went to the doctor for that positive appointment.

My mom's birthday and Mother's Day were close together. We decided that we would tell my family in person after dinner. My dad suffered from ulcerative colitis and was about to embark on his worst bout with it. It was eventually so bad that we thought we would lose him. In October, he ended up with an ostomy bag.

We got there and my parents had ordered a bottle of wine. I declined. No reason given. I didn't want to say it in the restaurant. We made it through dinner and my dad was getting to the point where he needed to get home quickly. So we told them in the parking lot. Dad was hitting a critical point and hurried them away so he could be home. I understood.

They called later for more information. Up until that point, I told my boss because I needed to keep leaving every week to see my doctor. I told my friend Melissa, who struggled with infertility and was five months with her second daughter. And now my parents and brother knew. But that was it.

His parents learned when we went in to see his youngest cousin graduate from college. We also told his brother and his sister-in-law.

We planned to tell the rest of my in-laws if and only if everything was still fine in June when we went to his grandfather's birthday dinner. I was fine. We bought an ultrasound frame and put a copy of the most recent one in there. He opened it at dinner, but only after a quick trip to restroom confirmed that I was not bleeding.

I let my mom call family in June. Everyone we told was under strict orders to keep things off of social media.

Jumping back to May, as senior adviser, I was in charge of graduation. The faculty gowns were brought to my room. Two heavy boxes. I knew I couldn't lift them, so I shoved one box off and caught it a little to ease it down. I figured I was safe.

The next day at work, I went to the restroom and found blood. I panicked. Why was it happening again? I found a quiet spot in the empty cafeteria and called my doctor. I waited for the return call by pacing school slowly and blindly, stopping at every faculty restroom to see how bad the bleeding was. It was slight. The nurse called back and said the doctor wanted me immediately. I arrived at her room full of big pregnant patients and fought back tears. Blood pressure elevated, but they knew why. Internal ultrasound showed a bouncing baby and a strong heart rate. Bleeding mostly gone. Only a slight dot on her wand. Gave me instructions to rest up, but cleared me to do graduation that night. Just don't overdo it. I'd had a voicemail from my principal, a nun, who was wishing me luck and praying for me. I kept that voicemail. I told my doctor about it and she said "If you've got nuns praying for you, everything will be fine." My principal loved that even if I found it silly.

I had her bring my graduation robes from my classroom and met her at church to run the show carefully. The secretary was concerned because I was pale and ran out in such a bad state. I decided I could trust her and told her what was going on. She kept it secret.

Apparently, several people, including my assistant principal, were very concerned. I was evidently very pale and looked worried or concerned or sad, depending on who you asked.

That weekend, we rented a camp with friends in Bay St. Louis, Miss. We had a blast. I faked drinking beers by bringing Abita Root Beer and a tall koozie to conceal the label. No one noticed. By this point, only our best friends knew. The circle widened probably once a week. They helped hide the fact that I couldn't lift or carry things and made sure we had one of the private rooms so that I could nap when I needed to because damn, first trimester sucks.

My nausea was subsiding at that point. I can no longer eat ginger things because I lived on ginger candy. That and Coke Icees were the only things that helped. The nausea was intense but never productive, haha. So hashtagblessed.

I didn't want to seem useless in the camping trip as we cleaned the camp. So I offered to sweep the house. That night, I was bleeding again. I went to work hoping that it was just the overexertion. I went back to the doctor. She said I had placenta previa, so I needed to seriously limit activity. Absolutely no lifting or carrying. Rest when possible, keep an eye on it. Hopefully, it would migrate up. Spoiler alert: it did, eventually. But I was on pelvic rest and limited activity until after giving birth.

I had always said that if I could just be successfully pregnant, I wouldn't complain. I would comment about nausea. I would comment about the round ligament pain. Both needed to be brought to people's attention simply because both affected my ability to move and do things. But it wasn't a complaint, though.

I continued weekly visits and ultrasounds and rejoiced when I graduated to the trans abdominal ultrasound wand. I'd never made it that far.

But my guard would never drop, even after he was in my arms, safe and sound. My history stole that from me.