I Just Bought a Peleton Bike or I Just Might Lose This Baby
Grief is strange. Infuriating at times. The way the world insists on turning even if yours is not.
When my father-in-law died this year, my husband and girls and I were in Florida on vacation staying in a retro-themed resort. We had an absolute blast. It was my little one’s first time on an airplane, and perhaps what one might call our first “official” Griswold vacation as a family replete with baseball caps for protection from the sun and sneakers because bruh, my feet hurt now.
Our last night after nothing less than a gourmet over-priced meal in the retro-themed “diner,” which, yes, involved trays, we had made our way up to the room with plans to settle in and get ready to hit the road the next morning.
The phone rang and it was my brother-in-law, Noah, calling to say that John was gone. My husband crumpled into a ball on the floor. I was so relieved it was time to head home and start making plans to be with family as soon as possible.
The next morning I volunteered to venture down to the Starbucks to get breakfast for everyone, the girls excitedly awaiting their “coffee” (hot chocolate) to start the day like the little factory working chain smokers that they are.
That trip is etched into my mind in slow motion. I wondered if everyone could see how red my eyes were, hear the tears lingering at the back of my throat as I made our order. I hated everyone. Laughing, smiling. I managed to feel nostalgic watching the new arrivals roll in. That had just been us, we were so happy.
And then BOOM. Grief. That bitch.
My first miscarriage was the week of Christmas 2015. I had given my husband the pregnancy test as a birthday gift, and had laid in bed feeling that little life escaping me until we made our way to the ER per my midwife to make sure that at least everything was happening safely.
That fucking song. This was one of those hospitals that played a song every time a baby was born. I’m not entirely sure why. The person who had the baby knows they did, and there’s so much other fucked up shit happening in a hospital, I can’t imagine many people are at least comforted by the idea that someone, somewhere, is having a good day.
My husband offered to bring the car around. I wanted to walk. My first trip into the real world without my baby. The rest of the holidays that year honestly were a blur, probably because I spent most of them with a martini in my hand. I was pregnant two months later and gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.
Not many people know this, but Dutchess Kate and I are intimately linked. I know, I know, aside from the astonishing resemblance in both grace and body, I have hyperemesis when I’m pregnant. It’s pretty easy to tell who knows what that is, because they know if they make any of the following recommendations they’re BEGGING to get stabbed RIGHT IN THE THROAT:
ginger
saltines
ginger ale
sea bands
bland foods
Have you ever had food poisoning? This is that. But on steroids. And for 10 months. And you have to function.
I have PTSD for SURE from all of my pregnancies, functioning that sick can make any person nuts. It’s not abnormal at times to wish the pregnancy would end, anything to feel better. Estimates are that 10% of very wanted pregnancies are terminated because of the condition. I get it. Hospitalizations, IV fluids, medications, depression, it’s a good time.
And so when we decided to try for a baby this time, I hunted down the latest research in hyperemesis care and found a provider on board. I was ready to Do. This. Thang.
On November 20th, I and apparently like, EVERY OTHER FUCKING PERSON ON THE PLANET found out they were having a baby. The feeling cruddy and depressed began, honestly I’m not sure if it was better or worse. But man, when I do the math and realize my trauma is triggered, how could I know? 24 months of norovirus style symptoms, yeah, Brit Brit 2007 seems like the next logical step.
What was I thinking? I have two awesome girls. They are my world. We can’t afford another baby. I am self-employed now. Constantly shoving carbs in my mouth is the only way I even kind of feel better. I am already heavier than I would like to be, and the gaining has begun. I don’t want to be sick. This sucks. Is this what I want?
And then the blood. A spot here or there at first. Then more. Something wasn’t right. The doctor squeezed me in. I was there for hours, watching the happily and even miserably VERY pregnant women wander in and out. An ultrasound was on deck. This is what I want.
She turned the screen away from me. Started making small talk. Eventually called the doctor.
That’s not good.
He explains that the baby does not look like we would expect this far along, that there is no heartbeat. I’m probably going to miscarry. They will scan me again in a week, help the process along if need be.
He was so warm, hand on my back, hand in my hand. I could hear the steady thump, thump, thump of a doppler one room over. Someone’s baby was alive and well.
I walked out into what appeared to be a sea of couples, pregnant and waiting. Tears streaming down my cheeks, my eyes bloodshot red. I just wanted to get out of there.
When I got home, I cried. And cried. And cried.
I went into my target cart and deleted the few items I had added, some maternity tights, a couple of sweaters, some army fatigue leggings (you know, in case I needed to hide my legs at some point).
I scrolled through Facebook, hoping to fade into the abyss for a while. AND MY GOD IS EVERYONE PREGNANT. A few friends. A few family. My 85 year old High School English teacher?!
I decide I will take this ball and run with it. I will mourn this baby. I will enjoy not being sick every second of every day. I will get my health back, I will find a new way to work out (I had to stop running a few months back due to a torn hip ligament). I am gonna GET MY WHOLE GROOVE BACK. And did I mention I won’t be sick anymore. And won’t that at least be nice?
And a Peleton add showed up. Before I knew it I had ordered the freaking thing. I promise, we don’t have it like that. But a pity Peleton is different. I guess.
Today the bleeding picked up and I went back in. They wanted another ultrasound.
And there it was. A tiny heartbeat. A tiny, much slower than it should be, not that rhythmic heartbeat thumping in a much smaller than it should be at this point baby body. But a heartbeat. A heartbeat that had not been there the day before.
Watch the bleeding, she said. It could be nothing but an irritated polyp on my cervix. Relax, she said, there’s a 50/50 chance this baby will stick around. Enjoy Christmas she said. We will see you on the 26th.
So I guess we will see on the 26th.
And my Peleton will be delivered on the 30th.
I guess basically I’m just asking for all of the prayer, positive energy, healing, and love that you can spare. For both.