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Sorry it's been so long. I was in Canada over the weekend, on an impromptu girls' weekend with my MIL, SIL, niece, aunt in law, and Adelay. It was really fun; we stayed in my MIl's family cottage on Lake Huron and enjoyed the secluded beach area. Then when it got dark we would have popcorn and watch girly movies until everyone crashed from the long days of playing in the water. I wished we could have stayed longer.

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This morning I had an ultrasound. A gestational dating ultrasound, to be exact. I got a positive pregnancy test about two weeks ago, but since I conceived while I was breastfeeding, they wanted to check on the dates. I should have been seven weeks along today, according to my last period, but what we saw this morning was just a tiny, empty gestational sac, measuring at five weeks. Also, my hormone levels from my initial blood draw weren't where they should have been. They tried to be optimistic, to reassure us that maybe my dates were way off and that I was, in fact, just barely five weeks and it was too early to see an embryo, but I knew as soon as I heard the ultrasound tech's voice.

They did a second blood draw this morning, and called me with the results this afternoon. I was down on my knees, viciously scrubbing behind the toilet to keep my emotions at bay, as they told me that my hcg levels had dropped instead of doubled, and that it seemed I had experienced a missed miscarriage. I could schedule a D and C, or wait to see what happened. I opted for the D and C, since Eli's first birthday party is Sunday. I don't want to risk having to be in the middle of a miscarriage as I cut the cake and take pictures, you know? So I'll go in Friday, and the "products of conception" will be removed. So neat and tidy.


It could have been worse. This is my second miscarriage, but at least both times I never even saw a heartbeat, let alone an embryo. Things always seem to fail very early on. It should be somewhat less wrenching this way. A failed pregnancy, rather than a lost baby. Medically speaking, anyways. But for me, there is always the baby. Looking at the two lines on the positive test, what I see is tiny whorls of dark newborn hair, the fragile, ruddy newborn skin, the tiny bowed legs all curled in their hospital swaddling blanket. What I feel is the weight of its head cradled in my elbow.