The First Pill

I keep telling myself I need to take the first pill.

I shower, moisturize, do my makeup and get dressed. I make my coffee. The bottle of pills sits on the counter, untouched. I eat a muffin. Take with food, it says. A warning label on the side of the bottle reads Do not take if pregnant.

The label makes me cry. But I open the bottle and swallow one anyway.

I get to work and the cramps start. It’s intense and sudden. I feel nauseous, too. I take some Ibuprofen and go to the bathroom, just in case. When I wipe there’s a tiny amount of pink on the tissue. And then the tears begin again.

I know that baby bean is gone. But it’s like there’s part of me that holds on to what used to be, what could be. I don’t want to force it all out. I feel like I’m betraying my baby instead of letting nature take its course.

A quick Google search for “blighted ovum” brings dozens of Reddit stories of how women were told they had a blighted ovum and two weeks later, there was a baby in there! I know in my heart that’s not the case for me but part of me wonders…Could it be? Could my little bean just be hiding, too small to be seen right now? If I take this medicine, am I destroying my baby and my own hopes of motherhood?

But I know that’s not the case. These stories are from women who went in when they thought they were 6 weeks along, and it turned out they were off on their dates and were only 4 or 5 weeks. I should be 10 weeks and some change. At the very least, even if I’m off, I’d have to be 8 weeks. There should have been something on that screen. But there was nothing.

Every single email in my inbox seems to end with “Have a good day!” But I won’t. There are no more good days. I wonder if I’ll ever have a good day again. Of course, I know that’s not true. The rational part of my brain reminds me that this pain is temporary. There will be better days. I will be happy again. But right now I don’t understand. My fractured heart can’t feel that future warmth.

How do I move on? How do I try again? The next time I see two little lines on a stick I won’t be overcome with joy. There will be no immediate text to my closest friends, no instant ecstasy. There will be fear. There will be worry and silence and secrecy.

I won’t tell anyone but my husband. I’ll keep it a secret from my coworkers this time. I’ll say nothing about my caffeine intake, hide no hints on my social media, won’t breathe a word to anyone. Maybe I’ll tell my mom; but nobody else.

This is not the way I always dreamed my first pregnancy would go. I looked forward to that bathroom picture, the whisper-toned snapchats I’d send. I pictured telling our families the way that we did just a few short weeks ago, and posting an announcement on social media after the first ultrasound.

I imagined myself growing bigger, wearing the cutest maternity outfits, reading all the books, eating just the right foods, doing my prenatal workouts. All of this was to be done in the open, sharing this joy with my friends, enjoying every moment, every week, every milestone of this first-time journey.

All of that is gone.

The first time is now nothing but a painful memory. I can’t do it over. Announcing the first grandchild on both sides has come and gone, and we won’t get that back. It won’t be the same.

The holiday season is a time that I love. I look forward to it every year. I begin planning and buying Christmas gifts in October. I start decorating in November. I plan parties and get-togethers and activities. But now I have no desire to do so.

We were so excited - A baby by next Christmas! I had my maternity-Christmas outfit picked out. I’d envisioned decorating the tree with one hand on my little baby bump, singing Christmas carols to my little bean. I was looking forward to the family meals, everyone congratulating us and excited for the new arrival.

Now I dread the meals.

Thanksgiving is next week. I don’t even want to go. I don’t want to hear the well-meaning “Next time, honey” or “It’ll all be okay!” platitudes. Or worse yet, a cousin who hasn’t heard yet coming up and asking “How’s baby Hull doing?” and standing in the uncomfortable chasm of collective silence afterwards. I don’t want to comfort someone who didn’t know for their blunder - No, it’s okay! You didn’t know! It’s totally fine. We’re fine. Not a big deal.

Because it’s not fine. I’m not okay.

My heart is shattered. I’m bleeding, bleeding physically as the remnants of my pregnancy drain from my body; and bleeding emotionally as my heart and soul pours out into the ether. I feel like I could drown in my tears.

Am I overreacting? This all-too-common occurrence - why does it feel like my world is ending? My hopes and dreams and plans are desecrated, my happiness gone. My womb is a barren wasteland, soaked with blood.

Everything is ashes.