This post is going to be graphic-ish…and not funny. You may want to skip it.
On July 27th, I had my first prenatal appointment…and my last.
While we were waiting, Kiefer, who insisted on coming to the appointment, asked if I wanted him to come back to the room with me.
Thoughtsy: Of course. Why else would you be here?
Kiefer: To hold your hand when they draw blood since you tend to pass out. I don’t want to see you in stirrups. Or see a speculum. It seems so unnatural. (My doctor used neither.)
Thoughtsy: If you want to see the heartbeat, you have to come back.
Kiefer: Then I’ll come back. But I’m not holding the cup while you pee.
The assistant and the doctor both asked: “Oh, is this your first baby?”
Um, I’m 31 not 41. Yeah, it’s my first. Please don’t act so surprised.
The first appointment includes a transvaginal ultrasound. Translation: They put a condom on a wand that looks like a dildo and use that to look at the baby’s heartbeat.
Except for our baby….
We could only see the sac. Nothing else. The doctor said I was probably just earlier along than 7 weeks. And the bloodwork would tell us more about the pregnancy.
Kiefer held my hand through me mumbling incoherently to let them know I was still conscious through 8 flippin’ vials of blood.
The doctor warned me that I might spot the next day. And that’s how it started. But by the late afternoon, I was more than spotting. Much more. When I stood up, I felt…life…sliding out of me.
I was alone…and scared.
I knew what was happening was not normal; it was not ok.
Around 4 in the morning when the blood
was everywhere increased, I woke up Kiefer to drive me to urgent care.
Blood was drawn (again). But this time my feet ended up in stirrups. There was a speculum. And forceps. And blood. And a confirmed miscarriage.