Waking up with intense nausea was my first clue to take a pregnancy test. I waited alone in the bathroom on a quiet August morning. Anxiety consumed me as I watched the two pink lines emerge. I ran downstairs to show my husband. With our arms wrapped around one another, we stared quietly at the positive test in disbelief. We had waited 10 long months for this moment.
At my first ultrasound I undressed and prepared for the examination to begin. I awaited the precious flicker of my baby's heartbeat, the baby whom I had loved, prayed for, and spoken to continuously over the past month. The eerie silence of the ultrasound technician said a thousand words. Quiet tears evolved into hysteria as the doctor informed me of my options to end my “non-viable pregnancy.” A nurse gently scooped me up off the floor and tried to console me, as we waited for my husband to arrive.
Several days later I found myself on an operating table where I was prepped for a D&C. The over stimulating hospital lights, sounds, and sensations were all suppressed as I entered an unconscious state. I awoke with cramping and bleeding. My body had given birth, yet there was no baby in my arms. I waited alone in recovery, trying to make sense of my surroundings, struggling to breathe through the suffocation.
The bruise from my IV has since faded. The bleeding has long since ceased. There is no longer any physical trace of pain, and this infuriates me. I want a hideous, visible sign so that my exterior matches my mind and heart. I want the world to know that I am hurting. I have not healed. Not yet. I continue to wait for the burden to lift. I wait for peace to come. I wait for a new reality. I wait for a second chance at motherhood.