What no pregnant woman wants to see.

Written June 16, 2013.

Thursday night, Jeff and I were enjoying a lovely and unexpected evening together at home (as his show had been canceled). We'd just finished up the grilled fish tacos (shark for Jeff--but, since that's too high in mercury for me, I'd stuck to shrimp) and were getting into the first half hour of a new BBC America miniseries when the pregnant lady needed to go to the bathroom. And that's when I saw it for the first time: pale pink on the toilet paper.

I've never seen spotting in either of my pregnancies, aside from one brief round for which we had an explanation. This time, the spotting was completely unexpected, a potentially terrifying color, and preceded by mild cramps throughout the day. I surprised myself with my calm as I told Jeff what was going on and then called my nurse to leave a message for the morning. Like me, Jeff remained even keeled, logically walking through possible explanations--but his sense of peace came from a lack of worry whereas mine came from a resolve to bolster myself and prepare to endure the same heartbreak for a third time. After discussing possible effects on our weekend plans and checking in with M to let her know what was going on, we curled up on the sofa to pray. We boldly asked for the miracle we desire with all our hearts but also honestly submitted to God's will; we prayed for minute details (like my ability to get a good night's rest) and big-picture ideas (like our road to growing our family). We reminded each other that we are tasked, in 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18, to "be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances for this is God's will." (Oh--and we let our God know that we were more than a little frustrated with Him and His will at this point, because we figured he knows our hearts anyway, so we might as well put it out there.)

By Friday morning, small prayers were answered: the pink spotting had changed to light brown (which is a good sign) and I'd slept through the night. Our wonderful nurse called at 7:15AM just to calm my mind, then immediately called back once she'd spoken with our doctor. We determined that there would be little to see on an ultrasound that morning (and any attempts to do so would just irritate my cervix further), so--knowing that there's a 24-hour nurse on call Saturday and Sunday--we agreed to wait the weekend out and go in Monday morning.

It's now Sunday night. In the last 72 hours, not much has changed--Jeff remains even-keeled, I continue to try to take deep breaths, mild cramping and pulling sensations continue around my abdomen, and there's still brown (and occasionally pink) spotting. But we have made it through this weekend. Together. I am not too anxious about tomorrow morning's ultrasound (which should help determine, even at this early stage, if this pregnancy is headed down a path towards viability), a fact which surprises me. Rather, this is just another stage in our journey and, like so many of the previous ones, looking too far into alternate futures only sends me down a rabbit hole from which I can't easily return.

So, instead, it's just more waiting.