Bobby's Story, part I.

Currently listening to: Natalie Grant - "Held"

I found out I was pregnant on August 7th, 2011.

I was a couple of days late, if that. And since I could single-handedly redefine the term for "paranoiac", I snatched a pregnancy test from my personal stash (don't judge!).  I managed to pee on the stick with very little gracefulness, and after a minute of waiting, the word "PREGNANT" flashed. Seriously? Seriously. Pregnant. WHAT. My first words as a potential mother were,

"WHAT THE F*CK?"


Kicking off motherhood in style. 


Not that I didn't want to be pregnant. Let's rewind a tad here. I've wanted children since I realized what a mother was. Friends that have babies or kids know me as the baby hog or baby whisperer. I love children, and they love me (maybe because I let them do whatever the heck they want?). I've wanted my own kids since I can remember. 


Kinda like her:

And to be completely honest, I'm totally shameless about it. If there's a kid in the room, you're most likely to find me holding them and making them laugh, or on the floor acting the fool but keeping them entertained. It's always been a part of me, and a even bigger part has always yearned for my own little one.


So. Back to me screaming with knickers on my feet, tush on the loo, positive pregnant test in my hand. Voila, I'm pregnant. Cue mini panic attack. Why? Well, it was a tricky time. To say the least. We were planning to start trying to get pregnant in a couple of weeks, so I quit the Pill, so I could start shaking off the chemicals and whatnot.


Two weeks later ... hello, baby.


Timing was off, we weren't counting on getting pregnant SO fast, let alone finding out we're fertile on mutant levels (apparently, my lutheal phase is insanely long - ta-dah!). Everything was so quick, I hadn't had time to chart my cycles, to read the books, to save up for the nursery, to really try for a specific gender - nothing. Granted, Craig (my husband) had to console me through the mini panic attack referenced a couple of paragraphs above. 

Nonetheless, we were happy. Elated!


We picked out names, shared the news with our families, bought our first blanket for baby, talked to him, barfed my brains out, we were on track to becoming parents. Pre-natal vitamins, crackers on my bedside, my very own pregnancy journal, doctor's appointments, our first ultrasound, our lives were quickly changing.


The morning of my 10th week appointment at my doctor's office, I woke up with a sour feeling in my gut. I woke up Craig to tell him of the dream I've had. He stirred and listened. My doctor was pushing a wheelchair with me on it, rushing through hospital halls. I was thinking homeboy needs to relax, I feel fine! I look down between my legs and there was blood. Everywhere. As I turned to look at my doctor, I was met with the following words,

"We lost the baby, I'm so sorry."


Craig assured me it was just a dream. So did one of my closest friend after I texted her how this nightmare had gone. Somewhat comforted, I drove to work and took off to my appointment during lunch hour.

As I laid on the exam room, and my doctor looked for the baby's heartbeat, I grew uneasy. The doctor was reassuring, saying maybe the baby was too small for the Doppler right now. I remember it as a blur, having the doctor bring in an older ultrasound machine to find the heartbeat. I was scared.


He searched and searched for it. Pressed here, poked there. He was frowning staring at the screen, I was frowning staring at him. There was silence. I could feel the possibility of the impossible approaching. You know how it's said in intense moments seconds seem like hours? They felt like days for me, every single one of them. And finally ...


"Jen, it's a miscarriage. I'm so sorry."