In the beginning, I was nervous. I didn’t want people to know I was trying. I didn’t want people to know I was trying and not pregnant. And when I got pregnant, I didn’t want anyone to know right away. I was very private. I was nervous. I’ve seen enough miscarriages to make me justifiably nervous. I saw one woman after an ultrasound that showed she miscarried at 7 weeks and she asked me tearfully how she was going to tell her 6 year old. I was not going to be her. I just had to get to 13 weeks and then I could tell the world. Or 15 weeks. Or when the baby was born.
When I had my first ultrasound and it showed an empty sac, I was devastated. There should have been a heartbeat. There should have been a blob. There should have been something. All my excitement vanished. I planned a D&C for the following week, with an ultrasound beforehand, just to be sure. And so I went to work and held back tears as I listened to women complain about their pregnancies and felt a strong connection to those women who wanted to be pregnant and to those who were miscarrying. I was nauseous and sad and felt like I couldn’t tell anyone. I was mourning the pregnancy I thought I would have. Worried I would have trouble conceiving again. Worried I’d never be a mom. Worried I’d be spending my days with pregnant women but never be pregnant myself.
A week later, we could see a heartbeat! I was over the moon! I could rejoin the world of the happy and hopeful again. But that worry never fully left. We told our families at 12 weeks- but asked everyone to hold off on sharing the news until we had our 13 week ultrasound (our first trimester screen)- just to make sure everything was fine and to officially get me out of the first trimester. After telling my parents, I remember saying it still felt early to tell. I was still nervous. I’m a worrier by nature, so it felt natural to be nervous. In retrospect my sister tells me it was my maternal instinct kicking in early. Little did I know I would learn about whole new level of worry.