Last Wednesday night I had a dream that my beta test was negative.
On Thursday morning I woke up, still recalling the dream, and wishing it not to be true. I found a leftover home pregnancy test and went to town. It was positive.
I snapped a photo and immediately texted it to my husband, who is working out of town for the next several weeks. He replied with appropriate emojis.
The next two days were spent secretly happy, but cautious. Sore boobs. Intermittent nausea. Fatigue. I decided not to move up my beta, which was scheduled for Saturday. That morning I woke up, went to have my blood drawn, and then waited.
Since it was Labor Day weekend, I heard back a few hours later from the doctor on duty. My beta was, indeed, positive, but my hCG was a little on the low side at 31.5. Commence Googling. I knew enough to know that at four weeks pregnant “normal” hCG levels can vary wildly. As long as the number doubled in 48 hours, things could still be perfectly fine.
I tried to spend the rest of Saturday and Sunday off of Google, and allowed myself to be a little bit excited. I had noticeable symptoms. Before I went to sleep each night I talked to Olaf and Anakin in my head. I told them to stick around, please. I was ready for this. I promised my endometritis-free uterus could take good care of them if they just stuck around.
Monday morning I went in for my second hCG check. I felt like things were on track.
It’s all too easy for me to ask myself why I even bother being happy or excited about anything when it will just be taken from me. That was my first thought when the doctor called on Monday. My levels has dropped by half. She said she was sorry. I could stop the PIO and estrogen. I should expect a slightly heavier period soon. Did I have any questions?
My husband was sitting on the arm chair to my left and I just shook my head as I finished the call. He buried his head in his hands.
This was the briefest of all of my pregnancies. Because I was only four weeks and two days, it’s classified as an “early loss,” rather than a miscarriage. It was barely real. It felt barely real, too, I guess.
We’d said this was going to be our last try. A large part of me still feels that is the right call. The emotions are raw, though. I ask myself, as if on a loop, if I’m okay with never experiencing a baby kick me from inside my body. I don’t know. Why do other women get to experience this, and I don’t? I don’t know. I never seem to get closer to the answers.
These questions and many of these feelings are wrapped up in the idea that my body continues to fail me. I’ve talked in therapy about this at length. I want to forgive my body and make peace with her. I hope that I can.
Of all of the outcomes going into this last FET, pregnant for four days wasn’t one I’d considered.