Again

I had to wait to tell my husband, but I couldn't keep this to myself for two whole days. (I'm awful with secrets). I called my mother. She's superstitious, so she was very cautiously thrilled. The first time we were pregnant, I though she was crazy. Now I got it. The two days until Mark came home were two of the longest I'd had, and somehow he kind of knew. (I guess my declaration on the phone that I had a BIG surprise for him got him thinking.) He was also cautiously thrilled. I had already come to the realization that a pregnancy after a miscarriage carries a heavier burden of worry. You are on edge until you pass the point in time that you miscarried previously, and even after that, you don't ever lose that nagging feeling that something is going wrong. A sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop for the entire time you're pregnant. Because I had been vigilantly taking my temperature, and because I appeared to have a relatively short luteal phase, I was technically just under four weeks pregnant when I found out. This would be a long 36 weeks, I imagined. I called my doctor's office the next business day and was terrified when the NP told me I could wait until I came in to get my prescription for progesterone suppositories. Didn't she get that I was a wreck? Didn't she get that every second without these suppositories could spell doom for my unborn child? I realized I would have to wait, and I hung up the phone and sobbed. I left the Clomid on my dresser, to be safe. My appointment to confirm the pregnancies was two days away and I was sure something would happen in those 48 hours. It didn't. I got my prescription, found myself a compounding pharmacy, and thus began the nightly ritual of inserting a cold glycerin suppository into my vagina. Ideally, this would continue until 12 or 13 weeks of pregnancy, at which time the placenta could be counted on to maintain things and the chilly white torpedoes could be abandoned. And the days ticked by...about twelve of them to be exact