At 7 weeks we went in for our third ultrasound. This was the ultrasound to see a heartbeat. We knew it was important.
But there was no heartbeat.
There was a sac still, but no sign of life. No little heart.
I can not put that amount of devastation into words. I won't try. So we drive home, and all I can think about is calling the family. I want it over with as soon as possible. I don't want anyone to be hopeful anymore. So we call everyone, and we say that word: "miscarriage".
That word is finite and succinct, neat and tidy - it doesn't convey what it needs to. Here's what has to happen next: I have to pretend I am pregnant for a full week. I have to carry around my sad little sac; I can't drink alcohol and I can't eat any foods I am not supposed to. I have to figure out a way to work, to get through each block of 24 hours, to get to sleep. I have to get to the next ultrasound to confirm what we already know. Miscarriage sounds so final. So complete. But it's not. This is just the beginning of a horrid process.
But I make it, because what choice do I have? And I make it yet another 2 days to the D&E.
The last thing I remember is being strapped down to a table and telling the nurses that I couldn't believe that something so happy had led me here.
And then at least the physical part of this whole mess is over. Or at least I think it is.