Since losing some weight I've been able to shop at "normal" clothing stores. And it's great. Well, mostly great. One store I shop at often tends to be snobbish and cold but what's a gal to do? (Yep, I know there are many things I could do...but I haven't)
This one shirt I really, really liked. I liked it on the hanger. I liked it on me more. But I did not like the price. And so I played the waiting game. You know, I'm getting good at that game. This time it paid off. A week later this shirt was 40% off. Nice.
Of course this shirt is blue tones...lovely blues that I don't often wear. So this presented the first set of problems, pants and shoes. What do I wear with this shirt?
After I got home I dug through my shoe cabinet. This literally is a cabinet that I shove my shoes into on a daily basis. I happened to have a lovely pair of bronze heels to rock with this shirt. But which pants? I found myself at a point where all my pants were either black or super big.
But, ah ha! I could wait until Friday. On Fridays we can wear jeans to work. That would be fantastic.
And so Friday finally came. Unfortunately for the record books, it happened to be this Friday. A Friday I'm sure I won't forget for a very long time. I remember thinking as I dressed that morning that this shirt was going to help me cope with the day. I'd look fantastic and feel the same despite what was happening inside me.
And all Friday long this shirt stuck with me. It kept me cool in the warm, humid, sun. It made me feel put together as I watched many a people walk past me in pajamas and other lounging clothes. Every once in a while I remembered the great deal I got on that shirt. And that was my problem...I put too much emphasis on this damn shirt.
Even now, one month past the whole ordeal, whenever I see this shirt that's all I can think of. The poor shirt is ruined to me. No matter what I try to pair it with, no matter how many times I try to convince myself it's just a part of my wardrobe, I only ever think of that Friday full of tears, red-stained cotton gauzed elbows, and a small, very small, loss (emphasis on the actual size...).
I really am passed all the emotional baggage of the event, but why am I still stuck on this stupid shirt?
Well, ("It's a deep subject", as my mom would say) it's been a long weekend. Maybe it's been more of a long month. For a hot minute I was pregnant. Really. One year and eleven months of trying to conceive and we finally did. It was exciting, scary, and unbelievable all at the same time. But alas, it was short lived.
I'm mainly writing about this to help myself digest everything but I suppose someone, somewhere, may learn a thing or two from our experience.
First off, I could hardly contain the fact that I was late. I'm rarely ever late. The only things that make me late are travel and sickness...neither of which I had experienced this month. I, amazingly, controlled myself enough to wait five days past my missed period before testing.
After a series of very faint positives on a Monday night, I resolved to retest the next morning. The digital stick said, "PREGNANT" and the Dollar Store (um, those things really do work well!) one clearly showed a blue plus sign.
Finally. Almost two years of trying, hoping, peeing on sticks to finally see pregnant. Me, I was pregnant. And when that actually sank in, it scared the shit out of me.
Tuesday morning I called my OB to schedule a blood test which I did late Tuesday afternoon. The hubs said he'd believe I was pregnant when it came from the doctor. So, I had to get the blood drawn. I hate needles and furthermore hate getting blood drawn from my body. But heck, if I were going to get a phone call in return telling me I was pregnant, it was worth it.
Wednesday afternoon, while in the computer lab with all 26 of my students and my dear friend the computer lab aide, I got the phone call. I answered the phone, smiling, anticipating the great news. When her tone didn't match mine, I immediately worried. From what I remember, this is what she said, "Your beta results show you're between one to two weeks pregnant."
Now, I'm no doctor, but I can do some math--and with the greatness of the Internet I'd already calculated a due date and all. "One to two weeks?"
"Yes."
"That can't be right (you know, because you can argue with a nurse and medical results), I'm at least five weeks along."
"Well, let's schedule you another blood test. If the levels rise, you're in good shape."
I don't remember much else of that conversation other than trying to excuse myself into the hallway to continue this awkward phone call only to find a colleague of mine standing there grading posters on the wall. How do you talk about this sensitive subject in front of others, especially when no one knows?!
Wednesday into Thursday were full of worry. I'm a realist. I'm definitely positive but when I'm given actual medical data, I can't help but think of what might be.
Thursday afternoon I returned for the blood test. On my way out, I made a comment like, "I sure hope this one's better than the last."
The lab tech said nothing. Not a good sign.
Thursday evening I cried all night long. I could feel it in my bones or rather, I couldn't feel it in my bones. I just knew.
Friday morning I woke up to spotting. In retrospect, I'm so glad I found out myself first, instead of having anyone else tell me. I snuggled in bed with the hubs before I left for work and told him the news. I cried a little bit more but pulled myself together for the commute to work.
When I got to work, I started bleeding. After walking my kids to their Special first thing in the morning, I noticed I had a voice mail. Again, not a good sign when the OB's calling you at 8 am.
I braced myself for the phone call and tried to talk myself out of crying. Worked like a charm, NOT.
Turns out this whole process is more complicated than just miscarrying. This included the doctor and also, and this was the hardest, telling my mom not only was I pregnant, but I was now miscarrying. Both my mom and dad were headed up for the weekend and by the time this all happened, they had already arrived. After getting through the initial news, it worked out well. My mom came with me the whole afternoon and we even had the chance to go grab some lunch.
I had to go see my Dr. first to go over some information, set up repeat blood tests (watching hormone levels drop), receive an exam--which never happened-thank goodness, and get the schedule of when we could try again. Since I didn't know my blood type I had to also head to our hospital for more blood work (have I mentioned how much I hate needles and blood work?!?) to find out if I was RH negative.
I left my Dr's office with a form for the blood test that read at the bottom, "STAT". Now, I know I'm okay, uncomfortable, but okay, so why stat? Turns out, long story short, if I happened to be RH negative I would have to receive a shot called "Rhogam" to further prevent my body from fighting off and rejecting any future pregnancies. But don't you think I'd know if I were negative?
Turns out, not so much. After two very painful pokes (a MISS on the first attempt, that was no fun) I returned to the waiting room, eyes full of tears, to my mom. I don't do well with needles, ahem, and with the additional pain of a student phlebotomist I could hold no more.
We waited in the lab for another hour and a half only to have a nurse call my name again as she held a small package. Sure enough, RH negative. Which meant, another needle.
And that was the last time I cried during this whole situation. Am I sad? Sure. Is it the end of the world? Nope. Am I getting right back up and back on the family planning wagon again? You betcha.
I'm a firm believer in things happening for a reason. This has been proven to me time and time again. I'm waiting for this one to be completely clear. I now know about the RH negative issue but I feel there may be something greater than that. Only time will tell.
But for one hot minute, I was pregnant.
