In my last post I shared the story of my miscarriages. Miscarriage or spontaneous abortion is a lot more common than we may realise or want to admit. As common as it may be, it’s still not at all a pleasant experience.
For me, it was obvious that I had no problem getting pregnant. After all, I had gotten pregnant twice in the space of about two and a half months. Other friends had been trying for almost a year with no success (an equally frustrating experience).
In Spain, the protocol is that only after 3 consecutive miscarriages will they run tests because again, miscarriage, although sad, is very common. Some weeks after the second miscarriage I went to our family doctor. I don’t remember why I went. Maybe to get a letter or something- I don’t know. What I do remember, is that she said that if we would be trying again, we should wait about 3 months.
Well… I just lost it. ”3 months for what? To go through this shit again?” I asked her. I told her I was never going to have a baby and that she might as well schedule me to tie my tubes. I would prefer to go through that than to get excited all over again and then have it go sour in a matter of weeks.
To cut it short, she scheduled me for testing. The public system here, though really good, can be a bit slow. So we scheduled with my private doctor and he ordered some tests to determine whether or not Guille or I had some genetic issue or something that was preventing the pregnancies to progress successfully.
By the time we sucked it up and made the appointment, had the tests done and got the results. I was pregnant yet again. The results showed that we were both healthy and confirmed that the miscarriages were just ”bad luck”- that somewhere along the way, something went wrong and the pregnancy wasn’t viable.
I suppose that was good news but it still stung that I’d just had bad luck.
On Christmas Day, I put the positive pregnancy test under our little tree for Guille. I spent all of Christmas break lying down with my hips elevated and my feet up. I decided on my own that i was going to take progesterone pills. I went to the doctor a few days after my birthday and he confirmed that I was pregnant and said things looked good, though it was too early to be sure. I told him I was taking progesterone (though he didn’t prescribe it), so he told me to continue.
January 11th. 2016. I’m 5 weeks along and back at work after Christmas holidays. I go to the bathroom between classes and again… I’m spotting. I call my friend Lucía who’s the only person at work who knows I’m pregnant and she comes to where I am and I just cry and cry and tell her I absolutely cannot go through another miscarriage; that I am pretty sure the sadness of it will sink me into a deep depression or kill me. She offers to take me to the doctor or whatever I need and tells me repeatedly not to worry.
I pull mysef together, call my doctor and finish teaching my class. It’s a Monday so I will have to wait until Wednesday to see my doctor because Tuesday is his day off and I work in a different city and it will take me over an hour to get to his office. So I hope for the best and see if I can wait until Wednesday.
BY the end of the day I’m barely spotting but I’ve cried at least 2 or 3 more times and the principal (along with half the staff) now knows I’m pregnant. I get home and decide that I have to go to the hospital because I won’t get through the night without worrying myself sick.
That night was the beginning of 38 weeks and 4 days of nervousness and worry.