I didn't want to do this again. I didn't want to be the mother who dreads going to the OB, who jealously hides from pregnant women, who crumbles at the question, "When are you going to have another?"
I didn't want to have another miscarriage. I just didn't.
And yet, here I am again, losing our surprise anniversary baby. The baby we weren't supposed to conceive last month, the one who wasn't supposed to be made by husband and wife. Our third child was going to be conceived at the doctor's office using a "sample" and a thin catheter. And yet, somehow during the month where I detected no ovulation surge, I ovulated and one of Scott's sleepy swimmers managed to pass swim class, meeting my egg like two fingertips touching.
I tested on the morning of our anniversary, figuring that the fastest way to end a cycle is to pee on a stick. It came up positive, and so did the test I took after I got to work and the two I took the next morning after I realized I'd started spotting. I went in for a blood draw after pretty much giving the nurse my medical orders -- "I have a history of ectopic pregnancy, you'll want to order a quantitative hCG." Nurse says, "Oh, yeah. That sounds good. When can you come in?"
At the blood draw, just as I was complementing the phlebotomist, she rolled my vein. I've been wearing a huge bruise in my inner left elbow since then. My kids kiss it because it is so hideous they are convinved it is quite painful. It really isn't. That was a week ago.
Two days ago, I went back for a repeat blood draw. A different phlebotomist rolled a vein in my right arm, again apologizing profusely. Great, matching tattoo bruises. This isn't the worst pain, either. No, that pain is reserved for the stubborn red blood I'm wiping angrily as if by wiping it would just go away, just leave me and my baby alone.
This morning I called in to get the official word that I am, indeed, miscarrying. It appears that the score is now tied: two kids and two miscarriages.
I just didn't want to do this again.