Today I had a D&C, and started a blog called Happiness is Little Moments.
After adjusting to the idea that the mass of cells that had set up shop in my uterus for the last nine weeks would no longer grow into my future son or daughter, and after waiting a few days for Mother Nature to resolve the issue on her own, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Rather, into my doctor's far more steady hands.
A brief morning in the hospital was followed by the comfort of a bagel, lox and coffee. We went home, I parked myself on the couch, and tried to ignore the gnawing emptiness. Californication, What Not to Wear, Glee and The Good Wife helped, until I ran out of DVR'ed shows.
My husband doted. Offers of tea, snacks and/or snuggles came every 10 minutes. I felt crampy, cranky and just plain sad.
Throughout my stay at the hospital, nurses and doctors asked me whether this was my first pregnancy. When I told them that I had a little boy at home, they looked relieved and reassured me of my body's future ability to carry a pregnancy to term.
I heard this a lot from well-meaning people in the days before the D&C, but didn't find a lot of comfort in the thought. For the last nine weeks, we had been dreaming of a future with this baby. We daydreamed about its relationship with our two-year-old, joked about the need to shove its cradle in our bathroom for lack of another bedroom in our home. We asked our son if he wanted a brother or sister, and laughed when he said "Nuffin" every time. This little thing already was wanted and loved.
I continue to remind myself that what was lost was really a bunch of cells that had not yet formed a baby, and it's the idea of what could've been that actually hurts the most.
Our son stayed with my mom and stepdad while we were at the hospital, and for much of the afternoon as I tried to stay off my feet. By 5:00, I was desperate for him. After the grandparents dropped him off, we sat together and watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. I cozied into him, inhaling the sweet smell of his hair, stroking his cheek, hugging him over and over. He looked at me and pursed his lips, dutifully prepared to return my needy affection with a kiss. But just as we were nose to nose, Ben stuck out his tongue and licked my face. And I laughed, and he laughed. He went in for the lick again, and we collaped in giggles.
As we settled back into Mickey and his gang, the pang of sad, of knowing that I won't have this kind of little moment with our lost baby, started to creep in. Then Ben crawled across the couch to his dad and proceeded to lick his face, and we all started giggling again.
For the last few weeks, as we struggled to understand what was happening with this pregnancy, I searched for things to be grateful for. It took a couple of wet noses and a silly little boy to jolt me back to life, and a deep appreciation for the sweet little moments.
