This is part I in the three part story of the miscarriage of our third baby; here is part II.
When I was younger, I didn’t understand the concept of miscarriage. How can you miss and mourn something that you’ve never held? As someone who believes that life begins at conception, it wasn’t that I didn’t believe those pregnancies were people. It was that I didn’t see how the loss of something so small could cause such huge pain.
Fast forward a decade to March of 2010. J. and I had just bought our first home, in Oregon, and he was back in Mississippi visiting family. It had occurred to me while at work that I was two weeks late. I was never late. So, after work, I stopped by the grocery store to buy a pregnancy test. I was so sure the test would be negative that I even bought tampons, too.
I went straight home and took the test. I hoped I was pregnant. J. and I had been trying for a couple of months. In those two minutes, as I paced the hallway outside the bathroom with our pony-sized black lab following anxiously behind, I dreamed. I imagined calling J. to share the news. I thought about my body growing and changing and the joy and anticipation of preparing for the baby. I pictured us as a family of three, with me falling in love with J. all over again while watching him be a dad.