Hope Hard Lost

Hope is an interesting thing. No matter how hard you try to tamp it down, it springs up again somewhere else, like a flower through the cracks of a sidewalk. I tried to prepare myself for Monday's ultrasound, tried to begin re-orienting myself to life again with two kids, both growing and moving on. I tried to make sure that I left no room for disappointment. But even if I could have accomplished that, the sight of my husband in his suit, worn in case all was well and he could go straight to work after my appointment, would probably have let in enough light to give my heart a little room to float. When we got to my doctor's office, I felt downright awkward, sitting there with another, much younger couple in the room. Then they called my name, and I entered the hallway that would lead me to a new chapter. Amazing how three little weeks can alter you forever. My doctor's nurse, an exceptionally kind person who had shared my joy on that first visit, greeted me happily. When I told her what had happened over the weekend, her face fell. "I have seen it go both ways," she said, though her expression had underscored what I already knew was the case. During the ultrasound, I never looked at the screen. Not once. I will never forget the doctor's voice punctuating the silence with the word "Unfortunately..." At that moment, I felt as if someone had ripped my heart out and thrown it against the wall of the tiny exam room. The rest of the visit is very much a blur. I remember meeting the doctor in his office, remember his telling us to let ourselves grieve, remember that I said "At least I didn't lose a child that I had actually known," remember the doctor responding that God doesn't look at grief that way, that He feels for us each individually, looks at our situations uniquely and with compassion. Then I remember, to my horror, that he wanted to schedule a D & C for the end of the week. For some reason I had thought that I was early enough along to skip that procedure. When we were finished, I remember stumbling forward to have blood drawn, tears flowing continuously. Then I ran from the office building, barely conscious that Gary was behind me, saying that he was going home to be with me.