Easter Monday I had my first D&C. That was two days ago, and I’m still reeling over all that’s happened in this past week. I feel lost, helpless, confined to a bed or a couch, and at the same time I just want to get up and move and go on.
My loss is no less or no more than anyone else’s loss. But my loss is quite medically involved. Good Friday I sat in the ultrasound room after some bleeding during my seventh week, and I stared at the screen thinking to myself, That does not look like a baby. And I was right.
Partial Molar Pregnancy.
Dangerous to me physically as well as mentally. My spouse and my fourteen-month-old son sat right behind me on the chair while I was on the table being examined, and it put our whole lives into a spin.
No trying to conceive again for a least a year.
Weekly or monthly checkups with the doctor for at least a year.
Gestational Trophoblastic Disease.
Where do you even go with that? Three days before Easter Sunday, and I hadn’t even written my Easter sermon yet. I was supposed to be eight weeks pregnant. I was supposed to be thinking about how I was going to tell my churches I was pregnant again. I was supposed to start making plans for the very fact I was due the week before Advent and was going to miss the entire Advent season.
My spouse and I keep thinking of all the ways life has changed with three simple words and one very long doctors visit. All the shifts in our relationship, in the way we look at our first child, in the way we think about the possibility of any more children.
Nothing is the same anymore, and we can’t really expect it to be. He hides away and copes through isolation. I cope through writing. Both of us try to spend time with our son, making sure his needs for love are met, and we both know we’ll get better and better at that as the days go by.
It’s only been a few short days. We can’t expect magic to happen, or pain to be gone, or plans to be figured out. But living in the waiting is so very hard. People laugh and joke about the TWW (two week wait) and how difficult that is when you want to take that pregnancy test but know it’s impossible for it to detect anything, but what about a 365 day wait, a wait to even attempt another wait?
This is the special world we’re now living in. A place where waiting will become a norm, where time will seem to never speed up, where doctors are going to become best friends, and relationships will shift, alter, and hopefully, grow stronger.
This is a place where our trust in God is going to have to come to the forefront, where our theology of life and death will make all the difference in how we go about each and every day, where some days I’m not going to want to get off the couch and others I’m going to be running for the door.
Let’s face it, a molar pregnancy loss isn’t just a loss of the baby. It’s a loss of control, of normal life, of security in my own health, of trust in exactly how my body can and will function from this point on and into the future. The unknowns are numerous, the fear is very real and present, and clinging to hope is the only thing we have to go on right now. That and my son’s constant smile and laughter to remind us of what we’ve already created and what we hope to one day create again.