by Ginger Earle

Created on: September 13, 2010

When I was eight weeks into my first pregnancy, I went for my first ultrasound.

In the exam room, my OB talked to me a little about when we conceived, and what to do and not to do, normal things. She left to let me get undressed for an ultrasound. I was so nervous I was shaking, knowing this was the moment when I would find out if I was really pregnant, if it was healthy, and the first time I would see our little bean.

At first the ultrasound looked weird, the screen was empty. She swished around a little more and then I saw it. The little embryo was there for sure. To me, it looked tiny, but I have no idea what normal is so I waited. She too said it was small and my heart started pounding. She moved the wand around more, trying to get a better look. She clicked a measurement and there it popped up on the screen: six weeks, two days. Impossible. I know when I ovulated. I know when we had sex to conceive because my husband went out of town the very next day. I knew that something was wrong and so did she. She clicked the measurements a few more times, not sounding hopeful. I was fighting back tears, and she calmly, kindly told me that we needed to talk in her office about what was going to happen next. I knew that was not a good.

I dressed, crying alone in the office, wishing I had been able to have MS there with me, or my mom, someone. I slowly stumbled out, unable to find her office. The receptionist pointed me in the right direction. As soon as I sat down I started crying hard. My doctor came around to my side of her desk, sat next to me, and held my hand. She was calm, but understanding, explaining to me my options. She was careful to make sure I knew that I didn’t cause this by eating something wrong, or lifting something heavy. She said the truth, the part we all know but that doesn’t in any way make the grief less real-that there is just something wrong with the baby and this is nature’s way. I know this is true but it doesn’t make it any less devastating. I have loved this little baby since the moment I saw the second line on that pregnancy test. I had hopes and plans for it. We loved it, we talked to it. My husband was already sure it was a girl, calling it by the name we had picked out.

I had worried about the possibility of a loss, but I never really thought it would happen to me.

I got up to leave, not taking the pregnancy grab bag of pamphlets and samples the nurse had given me earlier, thinking bitterly in my head, "I don't need that anymore!" My doctor grabbed it, put it in my hand and said: "No, take this, because you are going to get pregnant again, and you are going to have a healthy baby." Somehow, that made me smile through my tears and I thanked her and left.

Learn more about this author, Ginger Earle.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.