The Power of 9

Numbers.  Research has been done on their meanings.  The number 7 is mentioned thousands of times in the bible.  The number 3 is ever present - three strikes, "death comes in threes", the Holy Trinity, "you're once, twice, THREE times a lady...", ad infinitum. 


The number that won't escape my brain currently however, is nine.  There are 9 innings in a baseball game, my geek friends can attest to there being 9 Kings in the "Lord of the Rings", golf is divided into the front 9 and the back 9, and even my college sorority has 9 founding members.


The most recognizable "9" though?  Ask any mother and she can answer without a moment's contemplation: it's the duration of a pregnancy.  It is the countdown until your entire world gets thrown off its current course and onto a new one.  It might mean the time in which you change from a couple to a family.  Or it could mean the moment when you make your oldest child into a sibling, or doom your second child to become forever a middle child.


I've experienced this miraculous 9 three times now.  I'm grateful that each time, I was able to complete the full 9, and I have three lovely (albeit WILD) children to show for it.


This week though, the number 9 renders me tearful.  Not all mother's who embark on the journey of 9 are able to see it through.  Some are forced to deliver early and must suffer alongside their preemies.  And some never make it to the end of the 9 with a baby to show for it.  This is where my story begins.


In October 2013, I wasn't quite feeling myself.  I recognized the symptoms immediately...late period, sore chest, and an internal nervousness that had no exterior prompting.  I was certain something was wrong - I had my "tubes tied" after I delivered my 3rd child, so I couldn't possibly be pregnant.  I took a test anyway just to rule it out.  The damn thing was positive!


I'll admit it - I cried.  And not the happy tears of an excited mother-to-be either. I'm embarrassed now to say that I was just upset to be pregnant.  I had lost over 100 pounds after having my last child, and I wasn't prepared to wreck my body again.  I already had three kids, who are, some days, three more than I can handle.  I was not happy.


I looked up "pregnancy after tubal" and each article had one thing in common - contact your doctor immediately.  So I did, and I had an appointment that afternoon.  The ultrasound showed a "possible egg sack" in my uterus. 


I have strong beliefs about terminating pregnancies just because they're "inconvenient", so that was never even the slightest consideration.  I was pregnant and I was going to learn to be happy about it, dammit!


I was told to come back in a week to we could get a more conclusive ultrasound.  A week is a LONG time when you are pregnant.  I stay at home with my youngest child, so I had no grown-up "work" to distract me.  Just me and my laptop and the "Cars 2" disk for the 10 millionth time.  I browsed baby bedding, nursery themes, baby names...and I was actually getting excited! My husband was too! I went to the mall where I figured it wouldn't hurt to walk-through "Motherhood Maternity" just to update myself on the latest pregnancy fashions.  My husband and I started mentally re-configuring our home to accommodate a nursery for a 4th child.


Then came the day. I hadn't been sick and I had even run a 5k - 2 facts that boggle the mind if you'd been present for my other pregnancies (which were awful).  I chalked it up to being healthier.  I went to the ultrasound room, not for the cute little ultrasounds you see on television with the jelly on the belly, but the really uncomfortable internal kind they do on early pregnancies.  It took FOREVER.  It HURT.  The ultrasound tech looked concerned, but I didn't even really notice...I just thought maybe she was having a hard time locating my baby because it was still so early.  She put my results in a file and sent me out in the hall to wait.


When I was called into the room, the doctor looked un-phased.  I awaited her to tell me how far along I was.  I figured about 6-8 weeks.


"Well, it's definitely ectopic" she said (meaning in the fallopian tube, not in the uterus where it should be). "See this image on the ultrasound photo?  That is blood surrounding the embryo in your fallopian tubes.  See that?  That's the cardiac activity.  What happens next is that you will meet me at the hospital at 3:00 this afternoon, we will prep you for surgery, and remove the embryo." 


Remove the embryo? 


Reality was suspended and time stood still for a moment.  The doctor was not unkind, but very much to the point.  There was no saving this pregnancy, and if we didn't move soon, my own life would be in danger from the impending hemorrhage.


Cardiac activity?


The poor little thing was trying so hard to thrive in an environment that couldn't sustain it.  My heart was broken.  I knew I was already blessed with 3 children, and I remembered not wanting a fourth.  Rationality would tell me that it was just not meant to be, and to go home and be thankful for what I already had.  But rationality was not with me on that day, and not for many days to follow.


I signed the papers.  I made the appointments.  I somehow floated from the office to the car - and then, I truly came unglued.  I drove across the street to an empty parking lot - through my grief, I somehow still had the sense not to scare the other preggos by crying hysterically outside of the doctor's office.  While parked there, I tried to calm down enough to call my husband and tell him the news.  I failed at calm.  I was making all kinds of unintelligible sounds, but I'm sure he knew that the news wasn't good. 


Somehow I made it home.  He made all the arrangements for my mom to come stay with the kids so that he could accompany me to the hospital.  He called my best friend because he knew I needed her.  She got in the car and drove 8 hours to be with me.  Everyone was hurting.  All I could do was sob.


The room where you're taken to have your pregnancy "removed" is sadistically the same room where you go when you're going to deliver a baby.  I was in a birthing suite. A BIRTHING SUITE. What the damn hell?  I had to walk by crying newborns with pink bows on their doors to get to the room where I'd wait to end the cardiac activity occurring within me.  It was torture.


Surgery was short (or at least it felt short), and I was back home that evening.  All I can remember was crying "I want it back, I want it back."  The pregnancy hormones are rough enough post-delivery...to have them on top of coming home with no baby was just a surreal sadness that I can't explain. 


I hurt for myself, but also felt a lot of guilt.  Guilt because there was nothing I could do for the baby-not-to-be, and guilt for the pain my husband must have felt.  But I also felt a different guilt.  Millions of women go through this pain, and do not already have 3 children of their own as I do.  Many women only know this pain of almost-motherhood without ever knowing the joys of actual-motherhood.  I checked with support groups for ectopic pregnancies online, which is where I learned that my experience was dwarfed by that of these other women - women who'd had multiple ectopic pregnancies and still remained childless.  I felt like I had no right to be sad b/c of those who were undoubtedly "more sad".  I had to get away, so I went home with my best friend for a change of scenery for a few days.  It kind of helped me, but it did not help my husband or parents, who were also hurting and wanting to help.  Insert more guilt. Nothing I could do was right and nothing I could do would fix this.  What I needed was time - and time was standing still.


It took me a few weeks to finally stop crying.  I gained 25 pounds and stopped focusing on personal goals I'd had before October.  The song "Say Something" was released and I sobbed every time I heard the opening notes.  I kept my story mostly to myself and a few folks in the "need-to-know" category. I did this, not because I was embarrassed, but because I didn't want to here the well-wishers and their unwanted comments.  Comments like "it is for the best", and "you didn't want any more kids anyway, did you?" - some people feel the need to "say something" (ironically) even when nothing needs to be said. 


I moved on the best I could.


In February, we got a LOT of snow.  The thing about snow in the South that I find most interesting is NOT the pitiful driving attempts, but the quiet.  Without traffic, there is a peace and stillness that is uncanny.  It was in this brief moment of nature's noiselessness that I decided to take a quick walk, let "Say Something" blare on my headphones and say goodbye to my little angel.  I sent a kiss skyward just in time for my oldest child to wander outside and ask me what was wrong.  I desperately wanted a few more moments alone, but I took my son's appearance as a sign that my time was up and to get back to reality.  So we got out the sleds and life moved forward.


Since that day, I've cried very little, although that song still stings when it plays (which is all the time).  I've had one dream where I had the baby and it was a girl named Amelia.  I've never even told my husband this, and he may never know unless he decides to read through this monstrous blog entry.  And our angel might have appeared to him differently, if she/he appeared at all.  But as for me, I have an angel in heaven.  And her name is Amelia.


My 9 months would be up this weekend - so 9 is a number I can't escape for the moment. So far, I'm doing ok.  I'm doing really good actually.  I let a few tears fall as I've been writing this. I'm sure a few more will fall before the weekend is over.  I'll be ok though.  I always am.