Today, I find myself at nine weeks. That is one day longer that my first pregnancy which ended so abruptly and tragically on the table, with my feet in stirrups, and a wand in my vagina. I have my last ultrasound with my RE tomorrow at 3 pm, and I am hoping, praying, wishing, yearning, longing that everything will be okay. That the baby will measure at about an inch or so, the heartbeat will be in the upper 100′s, that the yolk sac will be small, small, small. These are the things I hope for before an ultrasound.
On the other hand, apparently, there is a movement afoot to celebrate the ultrasound. To treat it as a party centerpiece. I can’t even imagine. Have these people never faced tragedy? Grief? Pain? They must think that all pregnancies end in childbirth and a beautiful baby. I suppose that most do, really. Here on the other side of the statistic, where pain and grief are more common than parties and celebration, to think such a thing is outlandish. The hubris. The arrogance. Unbelievable, really.
Going in to this final ultrasound, I’m convinced that it will end poorly. I call this ultrasound PTSD. That damn wand rarely brings good news. Why would I be so lucky this time? The statistics tell me that the there is a good chance that I won’t be lucky. That this won’t be it. I guess I won’t know until tomorrow, and until tomorrow I will wait. I will wait to hear about our future, and about the life path we will be on.
Know this: I am not celebrating. I will not be Skyping the ultrasound with my nearest and dearest. I will not be wearing a party hat and singing with joy and exaltation. Instead, I will be shaking with fear and anxiety. I will be clutching Big Guy’s hand with trepidation and longing. This is the ultrasound of an infertile and a miscarrier. It isn’t a party.