I had won the battle. After over a year of trying, *I* had finally won. We were so incredibly excited that we couldn’t contain our excitement. We knew the rule – wait until your pregnancy is well established or else the chance of having to inform everyone of a potential miscarriage. But, we’d worked so very hard for this. We called our parents, and word spread like wildfire. Within days, “Congratulations” were streaming in. Word really does spread that fast in our families – that, and we all get very excited about babies.

Steven and I hugged and danced around. This would be the first grandchild for both of our parents, and the first great grandchild for 2 sets of (our) grandparents and the 2nd great grandchild for the other. I called my OB with gusto, ready to establish an appointment. I anticipated what would happen at my first visit, but I already knew in a way – I only had a stack of somewhere around 50 a few pregnancy related books.

The first visit went well. I peed in a cup, volunteered some of my blood, and chit-chatted happily. I looked through the pregnancy magazines in the waiting room. I was finally one of them – the smiley happy-go-lucky round bellied gals that skipped through the glossy pages. In full color. It was lovely. Just lovely.

Days later, my mom was due for a heart cath, they’d found something and wanted to check it out thoroughly, so my dad and I went with her. I paced. Then, he paced. We took turns, really. Finally, I escaped upstairs. I needed a change of scenery and thought visiting my OB’s office would be a good time to see if my lab tests had come in. They hadn’t yet, but told me I could go downstairs to the lab if I wanted (to get them by hand, which would be much quicker). So, half-running down the stairs, I made my way to the lab, following the arrows on the walls and floors. I gave them my information, and they returned with an envelope. Excited, I ripped the envelope open and tried to glean what I could from the medical jargon. At the bottom of the page, set a chart with figures (hormone levels) and the ranges they should fall in per each week of pregnancy. Carefully, I used my finger to trace over to which week I had calculated I was in.

My jaw dropped and my heart sunk into the floor.

No, God. Please, no.

I ran full speed up the stairs, and into the back office. Shaking, I showed them my results. “What’s wrong with my baby? Am I miscarrying? Why are my numbers so low?”

“We’re sure it’s fine,” they said, smiles plastered tightly onto their faces.

I drew in a few deep breaths and then tried just focusing on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. There you go. That’s it.

One of the nurses motioned to me, before disappearing in a back room. She handed me something, and I asked her what my low numbers meant. She explained that it was probably nothing, that we had just caught it early. But, even the ‘barely pregnant’ marks made my score look like a lonely man at sea. “What are you so worried about?” the nurse asked me.  I looked at her, half not understanding how she could even ask.  Tears rolled down my cheeks as I choked on the words that were trying to come out, “I can’t lose this baby.  My baby.  Not now, not after all of this.  I can’t.”  My doctor gave me a prescription for Prometrium, a hormone to help make the pregnancy ‘stick.’ After lots of hugs from my doctor and nurses, I dried my eyes and scheduled an appointment early the next week to have another blood test, making sure the numbers were doubling as they should.

I slowly made my way back to the waiting room, where my dad sat with his crossword puzzle book in his hand and his head against the wall, dozing off. I sat down beside him, and he stirred. A doctor in a white coat was walking towards us. We stood to greet him, and shook his hand. “She’s out, and she’s doing fine,” he said. “Everything seemed to be clear.”

And, for the very first time that day, I truly breathed.

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