I'd Seen a Heartbeat That Morning

But then the worst was over

On the morning of March 28^th, 9 weeks and 4 days into my pregnancy, I noticed a spot of blood when I went to the restroom. For years, I’d dreaded seeing blood even when I expected it. Now, the specter of failed fertility caught me totally unawares. I tried to remain calm, even as I imagined the worst. My husband was getting dressed for work, and I returned to the bedroom to tell him what I’d seen. I buried my head in his chest, trusting the comfort of his arms more than the reassurance of his words.

My doctor’s office wouldn’t open until 8:15, so I had two hours to kill before someone could tell me what to do. The sun burst onto a backdrop of broad Texas sky, and the birds’ spring melodies got underway. The beauty of the morning contrasted with the turmoil in my mind. I was torn between launching an intensive cleaning campaign and crawling back into bed.

I didn’t have much time to deliberate. My little boy came out of his room, blinking in the light. He was ready for morning hugs and a bowl of oatmeal. This was a “mom day,” not a school day for him. I was relieved not to be scheduled to work, but the gentle pace I typically enjoyed on our days at home was excruciating. I cooked the oatmeal and squeezed a spiral of honey over the top. I poured a small cup of milk, carried it all to the table, and put on a recording of Kevin Henkes’s Chester’s Way. I washed the pan and wiped off the countertop. Not even an hour had gone by. I couldn’t hold myself together much longer.

Like every woman I know, I went to the bathroom to cry. And, following the unspoken culturally-upon agenda, I spent the first instant letting my feelings out and all the time after working to pull myself back together. I checked for more blood, but didn’t see any. Maybe things would be okay after all.

At 8:15, I called my obstetrician’s office and spoke to the nurse practitioner. She told me that while a little bit of spotting is not typical, it’s also not unusual and not necessarily a sign of fetal distress. Her reassurances meant only slightly more than my husband’s. She suggested I come in for an ultrasound right away. My husband called in to work to let them know he’d be late. I called my friend, Beth, to ask if she could watch my son for a little while. When I explained why, I heard a catch in her breath. Her voice was calm and she offered to help in any way she could, but her unintentional moment of unguarded worry was a gift of solidarity.