The beginning of the real end...

This post is not for everyone. I'm not publicizing it on Facebook or G+, and I'm just telling you now that if you are at all squeamish or you just don't care to hear about the end of my failed pregnancy and all of the physical stuff that goes with it, now is the time to bail. Might I suggest The Doghouse Diaries?

Okay, for those of you who are still with us...

As you know, on Sunday, June 2, I started spotting. I vacillated with being scared and hopeful and even went to see a midwife, but cancelled my Thursday ultrasound when I woke up bleeding a lot and passing tissue on Thursday morning. For the next two weeks, it was just like having a period. And, actually, because my periods are so long, it was really only a couple of days longer than a marathon episode, lucky me.

Then, finally. last Wednesday, it seemed to let up.

Until Thursday night, when I woke up and we had a major clean-up in the bedding department. *sigh*

Yesterday, I felt crampy, but not menstrual. It was almost like gas in my side, but I was tempted to think it was almost like mild contractions. One or two stopped me in my tracks. I walked a couple of miles with Daphne and felt better.

This morning, I got out and rode a couple of miles on my bike to run errands. Except for the chain coming off of the gears when I was crossing 24th, the ride was pleasant and uneventful.

After I got home, I went to the restroom and, here's where it gets potentially gross and a little weird, I heard a sound you'd expect to hear if you were dropping a deuce, so to speak. Except that I wasn't.

Those obnoxious "fetal development" charts tell you that, at 9 weeks your baby is the size of a green olive and that Doppler might pick up a heart beat (ours didn't, but we know why). I don't know when the baby stopped developing, but I have to tell you: What I found deposited in the water resembles one of the things you pull out of the bag of gizzards they stuff back into the chicken after butchering. It is approximately 1.5-2 inches long, and I'm guessing is the whole thing: embryonic sac, fetus, etc.

This is both fascinating and disturbing and reassuring, and I'll tell you why.

The disturbing part is that, well, it's physically icky. And might have been more emotionally icky if several weeks hadn't already passed, and I hadn't gone to Haiti, and life hadn't gone on in its marvelous way.

The fascinating part is that, somehow, something that tiny, can conceivably grow into a whole person. Daphne was encased in that two-inch chicken-organ-looking thing. It's crazy. I've read that people say they can make out features of their miscarried babies at this age. I'm not squeamish, but I don't think I'm up to trying to remove it from the sac for closer investigation, either.

The reassuring part is this: When the pregnancy test was positive, I was so shocked, I just looked at it and threw it away. James never saw it. He took my word, of course. But still. Then I had so few symptoms, except for being sleepy.

A few times, it's crossed my mind that maybe I wasn't actually pregnant. Maybe I am just peri-menopausal, my crazy hormones delivered a false positive on a pregnancy test (I don't even know whether that's possible), I missed a period, and then had a REALLY heavy one the next time.

So this, at least, confirms that. To me and, should he wish to investigate, to James.

Now, the question is: What do I do with this? Do I put it in a box and bury it in our yard? What is the protocol? James is on his way home from work. What a sweet man. I love him so much.