Friday, June 20, 2008

It wasn't meant to be

Less than 2 hours ago, DH and I learned that our baby has died. S/he measured today at just 6 weeks, 3 days. That's a little bit ahead of the measurements we had at our 7-week ultrasound (actually, it might even be behind; truthfully, I'm unclear on that) — today was officially supposed to mark 9 weeks of pregnancy — so we think everything stopped working just about a week ago.

DH's workday starts at 6:30, so we arrived separately for the appointment. Afterward, we spent some time clinging in the parking lot. I'm waiting for him to confirm that he made it back to the office. I saw him wiping away tears in his car as I pulled out of the lot . . . he quickly caught up to me on the road and we sort of drove in tandem until our paths diverged on the interstate. He looked stoic, so I think he was under control. (Okay, I just called. He's there. He sounded shaky.)

I assumed I'd make it home safely because my body's/brain's go-to reaction to trauma is to immediately enter a state of dead calm. My assumption was right. I'm "fine."

It's too early for gin (I kid; it's probably a fine hour for gin, but I have a writing deadline today), so I grabbed a three-shot latte on the drive home. I'd previously lost my taste for coffee, but this tastes not entirely bad. Not quite good, though. We'll see if my system experiences any shock from the out-of-the-blue caffeine jolt. Doubt it.

What's next? Today I have to work. I'm roughly 4 hours away from completing a project. I know my client would tell me to drop it if she knew what's going on. But I can't possibly tell her that today. I don't have it in me. And I know I can finish the work. Call me crazy. Or call me (sick) master coper. I'll break down soon enough.

I'm standing by for a call to see exactly when the RE's clinic can fit me in for a D&C. I would have done it today, on the spot, but of course that wasn't logistically possible. Monday or Tuesday seems possible at the clinic, but I'll just have to wait for the word.

Naturally, Dr. S — the good doctor who gave us all that good news at the first IVF retrieval — will be the on-call surgeon next week. Dr. K is gone for 2 days and booked solid the others, and the only way she thought she could do it was on a lunch break (which she was willing to do). But I said no, the sooner the better, and my opinion that Dr. S is a social boob has no bearing on this situation. I know he is an exceptionally qualified surgeon.

I don't think my family members are standing by waiting for news today like they were at 7 weeks. So I shouldn't be getting any calls asking for updates. For that small favor I thank something in the universe.

When I turned on the computer just now I noticed an early-morning email from my dad in which he described the gorgeous scene at their lake home 2,000 miles away (which he knows I dearly love): Sunny day, slight breeze, highs in the 70s with calm, smooth waters. He and my mom are golfing (him) and lunching (her) during the day, then boating to a "summer's here" party tonight.

Dad wrote: "Tough day ahead. Don't you wish you were here?" He will be crushed.

I dropped a sunrise shot of that special, peaceful lake into an earlier post. See below for one taken two summers ago during what DH and I thought was an amazing twilight. Too amazing to capture with our camera, but try to capture it we did. We'd watched the sun sink just below the horizon — yet the water and the sky were still so brightly illuminated. I look at that scene and wish I could teleport myself there now, just to sit in a lawn chair — or better yet, quietly drift along in the middle of the lake. One of my favorite things to do is take the boat out by myself, find a perfect spot, and just float.

Despite my numbness, this feels like a twilight time. The sun has just disappeared (I know that I'm no longer pregnant) yet the water and sky are illuminated (I feel just as pregnant as I did in the full sun). That's better than a sunset, right? So, for a momentary fun-is-relative kick I just looked up twilight's definition. I can't quite choose between these equally compelling shades of meaning:
  1. A period or condition of decline following growth, glory, or success
  2. A state of ambiguity or obscurity
But, I figure, nobody is going to make me.

31 comments:

The Town Criers said...

I am so incredibly sorry, Lisa.

Valerie said...

I am very sorry.

BB and MTB said...

I am so sorry. I completely understand what you are going through as I had a missed miscarriage last year. No one could really say anything to make me feel better, but one thing that I really appreciated came from a co-worker, "There is no fairness to the situation. There is only time." I hope you can appreciate his words as well, and I hope you find peace and comfort.

sara said...

I am so very sorry.

CTagsGirl said...

My heart aches with you, Lisa. I'm so sorry.

Baby Steps to Baby Shoes said...

I wish there were words. Know how truly sorry I am.

Jaime Lynne said...

I am so sorry! You are not alone!

K @ ourboxofrain said...

I am so extraordinarily sorry for your loss. Ugh. Thinking of you.

Stephanie said...

I'm so sorry for your loss.

Sharon said...

I wish words could really help. I am so sorry for your loss.

SAHW said...

I found you through Lost and Found...I'm so sorry for your loss. It is indeed a twilight in both shades of the meaning...

Duck said...

I'm so incredibly sorry to read about your loss. It's so not fair.

Amy Jensen said...

I've been following your journey, and I wanted to express how sorry I am that this happened.

Heidi said...

I am so terribly sorry. love and hugs.

orodemniades said...

Oh no...I am so, so sorry.

noswimmers said...

I am SO VERY SORRY.

Anonymous said...

Oh NO!! Lisa, I am so sorry. I have been through so many miscarriages, late and early and they all are so devastating, especially when we worked so hard to get there. I hope you can take the time you need to grieve and somehow process all of this, although I still have a very hard time.

lots of love, shelley (momtoaminihawk)

RM said...

Lisa, I found you through Mel's also... I am so sorry to read your news. I am in the horrible m/c club too, so I can relate a bit to how you're feeling. Take good care of yourself in these next weeks. You deserve lots of comfort and understanding right now.

Elizabeth said...

came over from the lushary... so so sorry. so heartbreaking.

Opus #6 said...

My heart breaks for you. You express your feelings so eloquently. I'm so sorry for your loss. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family at this time. :*(

Amy said...

I'm so sorry. You're not alone, but I wish we could be there for you in more than a virtual way.

sweetpeapod said...

I'm so sorry to read the bad news. I can't even imagine how you must feel... xxxx

I Believe in Miracles said...

Came over from L&F. I am so sorry about your loss. I cannot imagine the heart break you are facing. My heart goes out to you.

Ms Heathen said...

My dear Lisa, I am so very, very sorry.

After everything you've been through, it seems so horribly unfair that this should have happened.

My thoughts are with you.

Polly Gamwich said...

I'm so so sorry ... your experience takes me back to my own losses and I'm crying for you (and probably for me too - you never forget the babies) ... the pain is so great - I pray that you are able to feel comforted & taken care of in this time and that you heal quickly.

Polly

Ally said...

I'm sorry, Lisa. So very sorry. I wish I had something better to say.

Joonie said...

Oh Lisa, I am so very sorry. I wish I had the words to console you, but there really aren't any. Just know that I am thinking of you.

CG said...

I am so sorry for your loss. Will keep you in my prayers.

admin said...

thinking about you. {{hugs}}

2roads said...

I wish I had the right words to express my sorrow for you. I'm incredibly sorry for your loss. Take good care of yourself and each other.

Lisa said...

You're in my prayers. :*( I hope you can feel peace and healing very soon.