Recurrent miscarriage is really, really hard

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I found out I was pregnant again at the beginning of November. I was so happy. No, I was ecstatic. I was over the freakin' moon. I felt pregnant--unlike my last two unpregnancies. You have never seen a woman so happy to puke every morning. I made a doctor's appointment. I ceased drinking coffee (for the most part), exercising, eating anything artificial, anything that I might have done wrong the other two times. I worried at every twinge, but I told myself: no blood, no panic. I went to the first prenatal appointment bracing to be lectured about the nine pounds I had gained.

He didn't find a heartbeat. The doctor was nonchalant about it; I was in instant panic attack mode. When he was listening to--whatever they listen to on your back, your heart or lungs or both--he told me to breath normally. This is as normal as it gets.

Because no doctor likes hyperventilating maybe-pregnant-maybe-not women in their office, he offered to do a quick ultrasound. He found a water sac, a pregnant-ish uterus, but no baby. It's called a missed abortion. I lost the baby, and I never even knew it. 'No blood, no panic'? Apparently not a medically sound policy. I was almost ten weeks pregnant, but not really.

That is the biggest shock I have ever experienced. I felt bad for Dr. Davenport, because I knew he was counting seconds until this entire not-really-prenatal visit was over. Sheesh, he's like my baby brother's age. Just had his own first child. Such a nice guy, but he has to be thinking please, please, please, don't freak out. I started to cry, but stopped myself long enough to get out.

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