Thirty-Two Days

Recently I saw several posts on Facebook about October being an infant and pregnancy loss awareness month. I stared at my newborn baby who had fallen asleep in my arms and scrolled past all of those posts, not daring to open any of them. My baby was right here – healthy, alive, breathing, a little milk dribbling down her face from breastfeeding – and I didn’t think my heart could take reading any of those stories. Then I thought, Didn’t you deal with this? Shouldn’t you share your story? Didn’t you feel alone?

So here I am. And here’s my story.

How many times do you see babies, get that baby fever, and decide you want to start (or expand) your family? My husband and I felt those cliché feelings almost four years ago now. We decided to get off the birth control and see what would happen.

Nothing happened for months. I read that it could take months if I had been on birth control for awhile. I had been. So we invested in ovulation kits, pregnancy tests, thermometers, apps, etc. and we planned our bedroom rendezvous around a cycle that I was starting to learn so well.

Thirty-two days. That’s how long my cycle was. On the dot. Perfect. I knew when to pee on the ovulation stick and see a positive result. I knew when our window of opportunity was. I knew when I’d see blood in the morning when I woke up on that thirty-second day because somehow three years had gone by and I was used to it by then.

There was a hollow feeling inside of me that was something I couldn’t explain. How was it that something so simple was so difficult for us? We were young, healthy, in tune with our bodies. We planned things. We handled our money well. We were so ready for a baby. Why was it that people could accidentally get pregnant? Or people who had children were having more when we only wanted one? It took a toll on our marriage, on our attitudes, on our outlook on life. It burned a fiery rage that somehow seared its way into our personalities and never quite left our minds. What was wrong with us? All we did was live for that thirty-second day knowing in our hearts we were just be kicked back down; that I would bleed out our child that could have been.

We were finally given an option for my husband to get a surgery that “might” work. If this was the problem, it “may” be fixed within 9-12 months. After three years of nothing, why not? Well, 9-12 months happened in only one. That thirty-second day came and went. Then the thirty-third. Five days late. Never had this happened. In the very back of our bathroom cabinet I had one pregnancy test left. I couldn’t even look at it at first. I calmly washed my hands, dried them on the towel…

Two lines. The sobs came uncontrollably. After three years of seeing that single line of a solid “negative” there was finally a second line. I took two more tests, both shining their double lines – and my face was shining too. I’d never felt so light and so elated in my life. This was our moment; we were going to have a baby.

We told our close friends, we told our family, we bought our first baby outfit and small stuffed animal. It felt as if all was right in the world. Two pink lines.

A week later we found ourselves in the ER because for what felt like the hundredth time I was bleeding out our child. My progesterone levels were low. They couldn’t find a heartbeat. I passed whatever was inside of me at home. Never in my life did I think I could feel so empty and so alone. I felt so broken, so useless.

Thirty-two days came and went like it usually did. We forced love during the “window of opportunity” as if we didn’t know what else to do. What could it hurt besides our hearts, knowing that nothing would come of it? We felt like a broken record, repeating the same actions and expecting a different outcome.

But it was routine by now.

Always waiting for that thirty-second day just so we could try it all over again.

Always asking ourselves the same question: It would be different this time, right?