Do you ever feel as though you aren’t actually living your life, but are standing on the sidelines, observing some poor sap in a pathetic B movie? You watch her trudging along, making the dinner, changing a diaper, cracking wise in a brief chat with her husband- but it doesn’t seem quite real in a “I am here, living this; this is me” kind of way.

Instead, your propensity to overanalyze and read deeply into the symbolism and hidden meaning in the mundanity separates you from yourself, creating at once a protective barrier and a harsh critic ready to pounce on and ridicule every misstep or moment of flat out bad drama. This is how my brain works. At times, it is a godsend, helping me to find humor in otherwise crumby moments; but in other times, this handicap makes me question my feelings and experiences, calling attention to my own brilliance or woeful lack thereof.

Thus it has been with the past few days. Last Monday I was pregnant, sort of.

After a few weeks of persistent pregnancy symptoms, and the notable lack of my menses, I went in for a quick blood test that I was certain would result in a positive. Instead it resulted in an “inconclusive”. The word plagued my thoughts. I moved through my usual routine, but every act was punctuated with a bold faced, all caps, INCONCLUSIVE hanging over my head. Empty the dishwasher: INCONCLUSIVE. Make the bed: INCONCLUSIVE. Take a shower: INCONCLUSIVE. What did that mean, anyway? After all, you are either pregnant or not, right? Wrong.

I retested three days later. The chipper nurse called me on the phone to let me know that once again, much to everyone’s surprise, my results were the same. This optimistic woman told me to return again in a few days. What she wasn’t saying, and what was painfully obvious to me was that something here was not right. Hormone levels not making significant changes in the early days of a pregnancy are not a good sign of a viable pregnancy.

It seemed that I was smack in the middle of three challenging outcomes.
1: I’m pregnant and the tests are just plain wonky.
2: I am waiting to miscarry a pregnancy that didn’t make it past the first five weeks.
3: I have an etopic pregnancy and my fallopian tube is about to rupture.

Frankly, not a one was overwhelmingly appealing. That may sound a bit harsh, as one is a baby, but in all honestly, this wasn’t planned. Now, I could pull a rabbit out of a hat and make the best of an unexpected situation. I could see benefits to the timing that was not my own. I would like to have another child, someday, maybe even someday fairly soon, and I could make this work out and be great.

However, my pregnancies involve 6 months of hyperemesis that leave me dependant on $40 a pill medications and intravenous fluids, followed by two months of bed rest due to preterm labor, finally culminating in a premature birth, that although healthy thus far, scares the daylights out of me. For me to be pregnant is to have to check out of life for roughly 8 months. I can’t cook. I can’t work. I can’t care for my children the way they deserve to be cared for. Having that sprung upon you is pretty overwhelming. Not to mention that if you can survive the pregnancy you still have to survive motherhood.

The other two options were certainly not easy ways out. Both are painful and are a loss. Both can create fertility problems in the future. They are confusing and overwhelming; a genetic betrayal that most people can’t help but blame themselves for at least a little, even when science and reason can explain with undeniable logic the hard fact that some life just doesn’t last that long. That sometimes a confused little ball of cells just doesn’t become what it started out to be. That, genetically speaking, every baby is a miracle because it takes a heck of a lot of things lined up with perfection to create life, and there isn’t a whole lot a mother can do to control that either way.

I was looking at genetic Russian Roulette.

Because I have an unshakable knowledge that my Father in Heaven knows me, and knows what is best for me, and will always give me the strength I require to move through life’s challenges if I am meek enough to receive it, I stopped worrying about it, got on my knees and gave it to Him. It is both humbling and powerful to be in a situation where you honestly say, “Thy will be done,” and mean it sincerely. I usually know what I want, and I ask for it, then I’m grouchy when the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, denies me what I want so He can give me something better that He has in store.

Hindsight being 20/20, I can look back and clearly see God’s hand in every step of my life. I can see where He has always led me to what is best, even in times of huge trial, where I cannot see the light. He is there drawing me near to Him and giving me strength to bear far more than I ever thought myself capable. So, in faith, I told Him that it was ok. That I was ready to bear whatever was going to be best for me, if He would just give me the strength to do it. And, as always, He did. I was calmed, and prepared.

Sunday morning we attended church and after the first meeting I went to the ladies room without giving things much thought only to discover that I had begun to miscarry. Even totally expecting it after two days of cramping, the blood came as a shock. This being my first experience with miscarriage, I quickly thought to seek out a friend who is a nurse. I was lucky as she entered the ladies room just as I was heading out the door to locate her. She was able to give me some basic advice, and I went to find my husband.

Now, our church is a bustling baby making machine, and I have got to say that being in the beginning of a miscarriage and having to pass by about fifteen gorgeous, chubby, bright eyed babies is at once painful and surreal. These darlings brought what was happening into pretty sharp focus. There would be no baby, and the fact stung.

I asked Chris to come out to the car so I could explain what was going on. I had opted not to let him know that I was pregnant until I knew if it was a viable pregnancy, so I know it came as a bit of a shock, but he was supportive and sweet, as always.

I made it through the rest of church before the cramping became severe. After a few hours of intensifying discomfort at home, I went in to the ER where they confirmed what was going on and made sure everything seemed to be progressing naturally as it should.

The first day I was kind of in shock. Oh I cried for a bit in the ladies room, then told my stoic Norwegian self to pull it together so I could go through the motions of the rest of the day. A calm settled over me, and I understood that what was happening was ok. It was what was needed right now, even if it was unpleasant and not something I would have chosen for myself. I got through the long wait at the ER with a measure of peace, but really, I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel about all of this. I knew how I would have felt had this happened when I was carrying Jonas or Maggie. I would have been devastated. From the moment of their conceptions I felt like I was their mom, and I was so attached. This pregnancy never seemed real; it was as if a part of me had known that this was nothing more than a blip on the radar, a small bundle of cells about to jump ship long before they could become anything as beautiful as a child.

I felt guilty for not feeling terrible, and then I felt terrible about feeling guilty. I worried that I had somehow caused this, as illogical as that was, and even worse, I worried that perhaps I wasn’t a good enough mother to be trusted with another child, so I was being denied. Reasonably, I was able to look at that untruth and think of all of the children born to truly horrible parents, and understand that this scenario simply didn’t add up. I worried about having this happen again, but having it happen when I was elated to be carrying child and having it leave me heartbroken. I worried that I wasn’t feeling the way I should be feeling, but reminded myself that my feelings, whatever they are right now, are valid and I’m entitled to feel that way.

Now, all that is left to do is ride it out, recover from the physical strain and the exhausting emotional upheaval. I’m doing the best I can.