Today I saw my baby. I birthed my 16 week old baby right there in the bathroom of the Dr's office. It was so tiny. But so perfect looking. And so heartbreaking to see there in it's tiny little sac.
The Dr tells me this is rare. He says its uncommon to get this far. But he says what is happening is good news. My body is healing itself and I won't need surgery. This is so good he says. All I can think about is how in the world this man got a medical degree. What my body is doing right now is most decidedly not good. It's not healing. Its torture. Its awful. Its cruel. Once I start tuning him out, all I can think about is that the longer this visit goes the more I'm paying him. With no maternity insurance, the bill keeps getting higher by the second. I ask him to stop talking. I immediately feel like a jerk. I keep my mouth shut for the ultrasound and bloodwork and follow up visit. But other than when the us tech tells me my uterus is now empty (again acting like that's good), I'm still thinking about the bill.
I don't want to tell anyone. I don't want to have to talk about it to anyone. So I decide, instead, to tell everyone here.
Tomorrow is December 24th. And then the 25th. I want to have a special Christmas with Rusty and Beckett. I don't want it to be burdened with sadness and loss. I don't want people telling me they are sorry and asking what they can do. I don't want people telling me its His plan. I don't want Christmas tarnished by pain. I want it to be magical and fun. Because that's what Christmas is for a healthy two year old boy that dreams of Santa Claus visiting and can't get enough of watching his train drive around the Christmas tree and asks to open presents anytime he gets a chance.
As for those presents of mine by the door, I don't want them. I don't want the maternity clothes and the waiting on baby #2 ornament. I'll take hugs and kisses from my healthy boys instead.
Merry Christmas.
