One year ago today, I found out I was pregnant with my son. I had had two miscarriages, and was having trouble getting pregnant again. I was 10 days past ovulation, and I convinced myself that morning that I wasn’t pregnant because I had no symptoms. I decided to take a home pregnancy test so I could mentally prepare myself for the next cycle.
My husband was in the shower so I took the test to the downstairs bathroom. I was sure I had enough time so that he would never know about it. I didn’t want to stress him out, too, and I didn’t think he needed to know the true extent of my neuroticism.
When I checked the test stick five minutes later, I couldn’t believe I was seeing the second line that meant it was positive. I turned around with the intention of heading upstairs to show the test to my husband and practically ran into him. He’d followed me into the bathroom – I guess he knew me too well.
We had a few moments – maybe even a few minutes – of pure joy. And then the fear set in. It was Saturday, so I had to wait until Monday so I could call my doctor and go in for a blood test. Fortunately, my pregnancy went smoothly. Even then, though, I breathed a huge sigh of relief at 23 weeks, which is the earliest possible moment of viability for the fetus. I refused to let anyone buy anything for the baby until I had passed the 28 week mark, when the viability rate goes up to 90% at a good hospital. I didn’t even want to talk about my baby shower until then.
The miscarriages were awful and the greatest pain I’ve ever experienced, and I miss my angel babies every day. But I know now that Alex is the child my husband and I were meant to have. Yesterday, he laughed for the first time. What a difference a year makes.
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