the pitfalls of apathy

That happy news I mentioned? Pregnancy. We began talking about another child when Felix was not but 4 months old. We had two embryos banked, both females, waiting to be awoken from their frozen slumber when the time was right. Their names were #2 and #13. We couldn’t transfer one until I was finished breastfeeding and that didn’t happen until Felix was 16 months. Soon after he was weaned we began the process - birth control, then meds to prep the uterus, monitoring to check the lining and finally, an embryo transfer. It was so different from the time we transferred Felix, when each day was a countdown and each moment an obsessive and fearful hope for the future. This time I went alone, barely scrambling childcare in time, distracted by my daily duties.

I also went in with major ambivalence. It took me a while to articulate this thought - I don’t want to be pregnant again, I don’t want to breastfeed again, I don’t want to raise a newborn again, but I am excited for the future of our family. I boasted to anybody who asked that I didn’t really care if it worked or didn’t, that our family is complete as it is. A little part of me even kind of hoped it wouldn’t work. I was proud of myself for being so chill, so blasé, so whatever. I was gripped with apathy.

So embryo #2 was transferred into me and the wait ensued. I took a pregnancy test far too early and it came back negative. I knew it would, it was only 3 days post transfer, but even so the result disappointed me. The disappointment surprised me. Maybe I really did want this. My husband and I talked about names, rarely agreeing until the name Ramona came up. Ramona means “wise protector”. We both loved it. Shortly after, I got a clue in my crossword “Cleary’s beloved character ___ Quimby". Ramona! A sign. More signs followed. A few days later there it was, a positive pee stick, positive blood work, steadily climbing HCG levels, and we rejoiced. Her name was Ramona Fern, a name, a daughter, a sister, an idea, a completion. She’d be due the day after my birthday, just how we planned it. She’d be two years and two months younger than her brother, just how we planned it. I told everybody - my family, acquaintances, far away friends - seeing no need to keep it to myself, despite how early it was. I’m excited. And besides, if it doesn’t work out, there’s no need for me to keep that to myself either, I reasoned. But why wouldn’t it work out? It’s a genetically tested embryo, she’s already implanted, my body has done this before.

Best laid plans, right?

We had our first ultrasound on Thursday and I went in more nervous than I expected to be. Danny and I took a few quiet moments in the car to press our foreheads together, to feel the assurance of each others’ presence. And then, just as sure as the pines are ever green, there she was, heart beat flashing like a disco ball. 111 bpm. The doctor took a picture and wrote “Hi Mom! Hi Dad! Here I am!”. Such relief! “Ramona!” we bellowed while driving home. Ramona is on her way!

That night my mom and her boyfriend came over for dinner. We told them of the heartbeat and they told us they were getting married. Joyous news all around. As I walked up the stairs to put Felix to bed I felt a wetness. Not unusual. The doctor told me to expect spotting. “Brown or pink” she’d said. But no, this was bright red. For 20 agonizing minutes I lay in the dark with Felix, unable to examine myself further, unable to Google. Once he was in a deep slumber I snuck away and checked again. More blood. I called for Danny. We didn’t know what to do so we kept going about our night and then I checked again. A big clot. Okay, I’m miscarrying. We examined it. It’s loose oval shape resembled the gestational sack we’d seen on the screen. This must be it, this must be her. I texted my friend Rachel “She’s gone.” Just like that. I can’t remember what prompted me to call the emergency line at the clinic, but the doctor on call gave us hope that this may just be bleeding from the subchorionic hemorrhage they spotted in the ultrasound. They’ll recheck in the morning. Reassured, I got back in bed.

An hour later, feeling my pad full, I stood up to go to the bathroom and whoosh, a gush. A large, wet softness fell out of me. Another step and another whoosh. “Oh my god” I gasped and Danny came running. Clots, cups worth. Very clearly my uterus was emptying itself. This is what I think it is. I showered, returned to bed, barely slept and bled all night. I dreamed I was in a multi-level shopping center, bleeding through my pants and desperately searching for a doctor. Finally I was in a hospital bed, surrounded by my grandmother’s elderly women friends, and an old woman doctor came in and declared me “still pregnant!” without examining me. “What? No!” I protested, “you have to check!”. “You’re pregnant!”, she yelled, “and you owe all of these women an apology!” In another restless dream I was soaking through pads and tampons on a white bed and dream Danny meanly said “you’re a fucking tick!”. Humiliated and confused, I demanded a divorce. (This is not a reflection of my marriage in the least. My brain was mirroring my stress back to me in terrible ways).

When we awoke early yesterday morning sobs poured out of me. A deep, wailing ache took over and Danny held me as it worked its way through. We entered the clinic later, just one day after seeing our girl’s flickering heart, both grasping at a faint shred of hope that maybe she had survived the trauma of the night before. No such luck. “I’m sorry” the same doctor said. She sat across from us, looked me directly in the eye and compassionately promised this was not my fault. Tears welled up. I needed to hear that more than I knew.

In the afternoon I picked up my guitar for the first time since before Felix was born. I crooned sad Roger Miller and Townes Van Zandt songs which felt an appropriate avenue for my tangled emotions. Felix objected, insisted I sing him Wheels on the Bus instead. Later, I drank a glass of tequila in the garden. I watched my boy excitedly try to touch the bees who were busy collecting pollen from the aster. Danny dug a hole beneath the honeysuckle and we buried a piece of my miscarriage. We held hands and pressed our foreheads together. Just then, my neighbor over the fence began playing “Right in Time” by Lucinda Williams.

Now I find myself wallowing in humility. How cavalier I was to tell everybody, how deceitful was my apathy. Why did I convince myself I didn’t care? How could I have not foreseen the depth of my desire? Not anticipated how much it’s going to suck to tell the moms at the playground? Not because it should be hidden, but because it actually hurts? I think I must have been shielding myself from the possibility of this moment. My nonchalance was proportional to the truth of my longing.