So Sorry

The funny thing about miscarriage is my unrelenting desire to apologize to everyone.

“I’m sorry,” is constantly on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to preface every interaction I have.  It’s not logical- I know it’s not logical, but it’s there.

I’m sorry I bled on that.

I’m sorry to bother you.

I’m sorry I lost our baby.

I’m sorry you’re hurting.

I’m sorry I can’t make it better.

I’m sorry I woke you.

I’m sorry I’m telling you such awful news.

I’m sorry I won’t be in to work for the next few days.

I’m sorry I can’t go climbing for a while.

I’m sorry I’m hiding.

I’m sorry I made you sad.

I’m sorry I keep crying.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I'm sorry.

I know that some of you might read those phrases in a sarcastic tone, but the truth is I really mean it- I am sorry, for all of it.  That it’s happened and is happening and will go on happening.  I know, logically, that none of it is my fault or anything for me to feel sorry about.

Emotions don’t care about logic.

My biggest regret is that we only told one couple about the pregnancy.  There are only two people in the world, aside from us, who got to know the unadulterated joy of my being pregnant.  Everyone else only knows that I was pregnant, but now I’m not.  No joy in the association, only sorrow.  And all because I wanted to wait until after my first ultrasound, which was going to be on Wednesday, to tell our families.

The spotting started late Friday night- pale pink and nothing to worry about.  That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway, as I lay in bed thinking about what I’d forbidden myself to think about until that point- that miscarriage is quite common in the first twelve weeks.  And I was only about seven weeks along.

The next morning I confessed to Nathan about the spotting, and that I was scared.  But it still wasn’t much, so I went hiking with some friends.  They were the couple that I chose to tell, and I’ll be honest- it was motivated by my desire to have an untainted moment of happiness, just in case something went wrong.  Because by that time, tiny little cramps had started.

On the drive home I called the on-call doctor.  She told me to take a warm bath and some Tylenol, and to come in for an ultrasound on Monday, just in case.  She also said that if the bleeding or pain got worse, to go ahead and go to the ER.

At about 2330, Nathan and I went to the ER.  We were there for six hours before the doctor finally confirmed what we already knew.  Three of those hours were us sitting alone in a small room after the ultrasound, not being told anything.  They’d hooked me up to an IV, and it hurt, and all I wanted was to take the damn thing out and go home, because I am not stupid and I knew what they were carefully avoiding telling us.

The only heartbeat I’d heard on the monitor had been my own.