During the last week of December, I discovered that I was pregnant. At age 42. Without any planning or trying or intention, except perhaps the longing for another child that I’ve only semi-successfully, despite much effort, squelched over the last two years. Bea has been talking all this past year about how much she wants a little brother or sister, and while I was pretty sure that ship had sailed, finding out that – maybe – it hadn’t was scary and thrilling and exciting and daunting and amazing.
We can’t afford it, but that didn’t seem to be enough of a reason not to move forward. We’re stretched thin in terms of energy and time, but those didn’t seem like reasons not to move forward, either.
I went for an early ultrasound, and while there is definitely something there – gestational sac, yolk sac – there didn’t seem to be an actual embryo. Which could just mean that my dates are off, but the ultrasound from yesterday doesn’t show much more. I had HCG levels checked and they’re going up, but not doubling. In fact, everything seems to be progressing at about half the usual pace.
And so while my body thinks it’s pregnant, it’s probably not a viable pregnancy, but I won’t know for certain for about two weeks. I’m hoping, more than I thought I would, but even hoping feels like hard and mostly futile work.
It’s not the same as losing Teddy, not so deep or dark or harrowing, but I’m just so sad. Sad, sad, sad. And the sadness bubbles up when I try to talk about it, which means I start crying, which means I can’t really talk about it. And work is crazy and Bea is almost seven years old and the semester just started up and it feels as though I have no time or freedom to be sad.
But I can be sad here, so here I am. I am howling a little, and snarling. I am stopping the pretense that I’m on top of things, if only for a few minutes. I am admitting that I wanted this baby and that I don’t want to let go.