In three parts

We took the baby to be cremated yesterday. After a great deal of thought and discussion, we decided that we just could not bear handing her off for lab tests.

It was a miserable day--cold, wind, and heavy rain. We had to take two buses to get to the mortuary in Daly City. While waiting for the 28 along 19th Ave., car after car plowed through the standing water and splashed and soaked us. Some people took up defensive postures with their umbrellas; I just didn't care. Our task at hand overwhelmed me, and I didn't care who saw the tears creeping down my face on the bus.

We completed the paperwork. We reported the date and time of death. We signed off as her mother and father. We named her Marie. Marie Pesic. This was never intended to be her name, but I so often light-heartedly called her "Fetus Marie" after my own middle name that it felt right. We held hands as the kind staff member asked us the necessary questions, and when my voice broke with sadness Ivan took over answering them. We said goodbye before handing her over.

* * * * *

In the nights, I feel panic. I feel lost and alone and the pain and fear are still fresh in my mind. I curl up to Ivan--pressing my body against the length of him, but the darkness engulfs me and the cold creeps into my bones. If I manage to nod off for a bit, my mind places me on a tiny, unstable balcony hundreds of stories above a city at night. I am carelessly leaning far over the edge, looking down. I jerk awake. Over and over again.

* * * * *

People keep referring to the next time I get pregnant, and I have to wrap my sweater tighter around me to keep the cold out. The next time.

We used to be three and not two.

I lost my baby at 3am yesterday morning, Saturday, March 19.

I had her in my bathroom. The pain was horrific and the scene was grisly. Most of the time I made Ivan wait on the other side of the door. I didn't want him standing in my blood or seeing and hearing the things that I was seeing and hearing. When I called his name he was through the door in a flash, folding me in his arms. The rest of the time he stayed outside, taking my instructions for what I needed and whom to call.

I want and need to tell my story of what happened in this apartment between 1 and 4am yesterday, but I don't know the right person or venue. I can't bear the thought of my friends who are mamas or mamas-to-be to read these awful things.

I can tell that she is gone. There is a terrible void where she used to be.

I feel such strange things toward my body. On one hand, it has been through so much in the last couple of days and I want to be gentle with it. But on the other, I feel betrayed by and angry with it. How could it fail to keep my baby safe?

I want to scream to the world that she existed. That she grew and fluttered in my body. That she was so important to us and already loved very much. That I thought of her nearly every moment, waking and asleep, and wanted to be a better person for her.

I have some irrational thoughts. Heroin addicts can shoot up while pregnant and still manage to have healthy babies. People can be unknowingly pregnant for as long as I was and longer and still manage to have healthy babies. Dogs can go off by themselves and burrow under porches and have healthy babies. But I--while taking the best care of myself that I could--managed to fuck it up.

I have some hateful thoughts, too. I wonder if the people who weren't happy for me before will be happy now that there is no baby.

I can sit and stare for hours at a time. I feel guilty if I smile at anything; my child is in a jar of alcohol in the bedroom. The grief and the anger come in tidal waves, and I am drowning. There just aren't enough tears in the world right now.

Downpour, downpour

Some of this is a little gruesome. Please don't read if you will be offended.

After several days of bleeding and a couple days of cramps, last night at about 1am the pain became extremely intense. We went to the emergency room at San Francisco General Hospital in a cab. It had started to rain. Ivan held my hand. I frequently had to lean over and grit my teeth from the severity of the pain. We tried not to focus on what was likely happening.

They took me in very quickly, and my kind nurse Gallo walked me to the bathroom so that I could give her a urine sample and put on a hospital gown. Once she shut the door and I began to undress, blood and tissue began to gush from me and onto every available surface--the floor, the toilet, my gown. I tried to clean up after myself, but it continued to run down my legs in hot, red streams. I opened the bathroom door to ask for help, but all I managed to do was begin to sob loudly into the hallway as blood pooled at my feet.

They put me in bed and hooked me up to an IV. I began to shiver violently, and they wrapped me in blankets. They called for Ivan. The doctor did a painful pelvic exam and vaginal ultrasound. He didn't say anything for the longest time, and I asked if he could see the baby. He turned the screen toward me so that I could see my tiny baby, very still. He couldn't see a heartbeat, and said he wasn't sure if it was because she was so small or if it was "something more worrisome." Ivan and sat and hugged and cried while we waited for my lab test results.

In the end, the verdict was that I am still pregnant according to my urine and blood tests. But the doctor warned me that I may very well be in the process of having a miscarriage; it's just too soon to tell.

I cried at the thought of my baby falling into a clump in the toilet. I was advised by multiple people to save the tissue so that it could be sent for lab tests. And then I cried at the thought of fishing her out and holding her in my hands.

I have been given instructions under what conditions I should return to the hospital. Otherwise, I return to my prenatal clinic Monday to give more blood and urine samples to find out if I am still pregnant. Now all I can do is wait.

I am so unhappy. And numb. I feel like I have failed.

The rain is coming down hard now.

Resting

We are okay, but that was a kind of primal fear I've never known and am not eager to experience again. After everything was over, we could not hear the baby's heartbeat. My midwife kept soothing me that this was perfectly normal for 11 1/2 weeks, and that I would see her with my own eyes during the ultrasound on Friday and would feel so much better.

Oh, I hope.

I want to sincerely thank the folks who wrote to check on me. Your concern means more to me than I can express.

More of my usual blather soon.

Wherein I begin what will surely be more regular mentions of my lady-parts

Knowing that boys read this blog, including my father (Hi Pop!), I'll try to go easy on the vagina talk. I'm not trying to give anybody nightmares or anything.

Today I had 1 of 3 doctor appointments this week. This one was with a midwife at my prenatal clinic. Well, actually I saw TWO midwives--one of them was in training. I really, really loved them both. We began by talking forever. Nothing was left out! Every aspect of my body and mind were covered. I had a list of questions and concerns, and we went through each and every one in great detail. We even pondered the nasty head cold I am currently sporting from every angle. Then they proceeded to poke, prod, and examine every square millimeter of my body. Again, nothing was left out. I just finished some antibiotics for a UTI, and now the antibiotics have caused some yucky side effects. Ick. This issue was dicussed and dealt with. Prescriptions were filled. I also had a flu shot and blood work.

What I am REALLY excited about, however, is what is coming up March 18: my first ultrasound. I elected to undergo some optional genetic testing that is no risk to the baby just so I could have an extra ultrasound a few weeks sooner than the first one they are already planning. I can't wait! It will quite possibly be too early to tell the baby's sex, but I don't care. I'm dying to see her swimming around and to glimpse her little heart beating.

I came home exhausted and congested, and was grateful for the hugs and offers to make dinner that I encountered. Ivan also kindly trekked out into the drizzle to Walgreen's to get me tissues and the cold medicine I was given permission to take. What was supposed to be taco night turned into yogurt, bananas, and kiwi for dinner, but the best part came last: armed with cold medicine I slept for *3 1/2* hours! I am hoping for more of this delicious elixir known as sleep in the very near future. Like, in the next 10 minutes.

This battlestation is operational.

I felt the baby move for the first time today. I felt the baby move!

It was the strangest and most wonderful feeling. I was lying on my side trying to take a nap, and I began feeling these tiny, delicate flutters. It felt like butterfly wings, or like a tiny fish swimming around. My little fish.

I felt her again tonight, and it makes me smile uncontrollably.

No shit!

At 10 weeks of pregnancy, I am reading that Fetus Marie is the size of a small plum. Now we're getting somewhere! She's lost her tail, her fingers and toes have separated, and her tooth and taste buds are now forming. She also intensely desires hot cinnamon candy.

I threw in that last part.

A few weeks ago when I had some time to kill in the Outer Sunset, I browsed in a small candy store. The sight of most of it didn't do anything special to me, but at the very end of the aisle, my eyes fell upon what seemed to be the loveliest sight:



I bought a few ounces of them. Oh, holy Jesus, did they taste divine. I've never been a big gummy candy fan, but I cannot stop thinking about these goddamn cinnamon bears. I've tried to fight it. I certainly don't need to be eating all that sugar--especially now--but oooohhhhh.... During a few moments of weakness, I found a website that sold them and just looked at pictures. Then I very responsibly closed the page and tried to forget. But I could not.

So I just gave up ordered 5 lbs of the damn things. I'll probably need to turn custody of them over to Ivan so that he can allot me a daily ration. At least until I freak out and hold a knife to his throat until he gives up the stash.

It's been a rough fucking day.

This week, the www.i-am-pregnant.com website advises me that I may find myself "feeling moody" and "getting distressed easily."

Uh, you think?

Despite all the delicious mustards out there, yellow is still my favorite.

At 8 weeks of pregnancy, my books tell me that Fetus Marie is now the size of a pinto bean. Before she was a blueberry. Next week she'll be a ripe green olive. It's starting to seem unsettling to compare her to food so much. Especially food that sounds delicious! (I say this as I lick mustard off my finger. Not sure why you should know that, but there it is.)

Generally, I find the pregnancy books I ordered to be fairly dull and not particularly well-written. One part I do enjoy is the "Dad Tips" in Your Pregnancy Week by Week. The authors advise expectant fathers regularly to:

- bring home flowers for no reason
- buy a present for your partner and the baby
- bring home her favorite dinner, or cook it yourself

Generally, they seem to be saying "Now that you've knocked her up, you better kiss her ass every chance you get." I am a fan of this advice, even if it is rather patronizing.

Fortunately Ivan is cooking dinner as we speak.

A little blog of fury

I think I lost a friend today.

I was meeting some friends for lunch this afternoon. I waited at the restaurant, looking forward to spending some time with some of my favorite people. Three of them were running late. The one to arrive on time is someone I've considered for years to be a dear friend, and she was the very first person I met when I moved to San Francisco and desperately needed friends. It had been quite some time since I had seen her, and I was genuinely glad to glimpse her face in the bustle of people on the sidewalk walking toward me. She looked tired. I hugged her and joked, "You're the only one on time!" She didn't say much, and we went in the restaurant. We hadn't gotten to talk in person yet about the baby.

When we went inside, I sat down at a table. She stood next to it, looked down and me, and said, "What is wrong with you?"

I was totally caught off guard, and said, "Excuse me?"

She said, "What were you thinking? With this child?"

My heart dropped in my chest. I met her eyes and said, "You know, I am really happy about this, and if you're not I don't want to hear about it."

She said very simply, "Okay. Bye." She spun on her heel and left, never looking back. I sat at the table alone for the next half hour trying to fight back tears.

I am so fucking angry, and so fucking hurt. A couple of friends for whom I have left messages when I tried to tell them my news have never bothered responding. A few people have asked, "Do you know who the father is?" A couple have inquired, "Can you even afford to being doing this?" One suggested ever so fucking gently that I should have an abortion and that this is just not a good time.

Right now I would kill to be one of those married women who has picked out trendy nursery colors and is already on waiting lists for the very best schools. People shit rainbows upon hearing her news and practically trip over themselves congratulating her. Instead of asking private, invasive questions, questioning her decision, and advising she abort the baby (for her own good, of course) people tell her she is glowing and chuckle that she'd better enjoy her sleep now because she won't get another full night for years.

I thought that having a baby was a joyful time. At home I carefully plan recipes loaded with vitamins and minerals, giggle over adorable hand-made baby hats on Etsy, and wonder if my baby will have a full head of hair. I want so very desperately to share this.

I am with child.

Ivan and I are expecting a baby in September, and we couldn't be happier about it. Despite the challenges of recent months, we decided that the time was right for us to start trying. We kept this private. I had reason to believe it might take awhile. As it turned out, it took two weeks.

I had always wondered what the moment felt like when a woman found out she was pregnant. I could envision shock, horror, joy--depending on the point she was at in life and whether it was planned. Mine *was* planned, but at the exact moment I looked at the test I felt panic. For a moment I wanted to run away and be five years old again and forget that any of this had ever happened. And then I had to sit down and take deep breaths. And cry. Ivan and I confirmed the names we had chosen and agreed to wait awhile before telling almost everyone about the pregnancy.

But I just couldn't keep it a secret. I was so excited, and I was dying to share my news. I began spilling the beans immediately.

Not everyone has reacted well and I--perhaps naively--was utterly shocked. It honestly just never occurred to me that would happen.

I am feeling so many things.

Today I read that my baby is the size of a blueberry right now and that her face is forming. I cried.

I have been thinking of all the people I love who are no longer on this earth who will not be able to see my child. And I cry.

I am terrified that my friends who have chosen not to have children and I will be increasingly unable to relate to each other and that our life paths will continue to diverge further and further apart. I cry.

Despite our difficult history, I want to talk to my mother all the fucking time. I long for her to hug me and tell me it is going to be okay. I want to talk to other mothers. I want to ask them how their vaginas are doing these days. I want to be surrounded by women. These longings make me cry.

When Ivan is sleeping, I need to touch his bare skin and listen to him breathe. I think about this being that we are creating together, and the enormity of it hits me in the gut and I cry quietly next to him in awe and wonder.

I feel incredible guilt about being able to conceive so easily when I have known some wonderful women for whom this is not the case. The tears begin to fall in big, fat drops.

Everywhere I go and everything I do, I am aware of this tiny life growing in me. I feel so privileged to be able to experience this. It's like a wonderful secret I take with me wherever I go.

I want a rocking chair. I want recipes that make broccoli and brussels sprouts and spinach taste divine to me. I want my aching boobs to knock it off. I want tall glasses of cold milk.

There is so much more to say. For now I am exhausted.