There is something so immensely pitiful about watching and feeling myself bleed out like I’m having a regular period, and not being able to do anything about it besides hoping that my little pea will somehow be strong enough to survive that.
The two doctors who saw me the past two days had not been able to explain the bleeding, and would only offer a very standard answer: all pregnancies have a 20% chance of miscarriage during the first 20 weeks.
And we know that the chances of miscarriage are even higher in the earliest part of pregnancy.
If I had fallen and suffered a gash on my shin, I could apply pressure and stop the bleeding.
If I had a sore throat, I could take medication to improve it.
If I had a tumour, the doctor could diagnose it and surgically remove it.
But with pregnancies, there is so little we can do to help a poorly developing embryo get stronger or prevent the mother’s body from rejecting it. We cannot stick our hands in and lovingly console the embryo or cajole the uterus into being more cooperative.
I remember when I was seven months pregnant with Titus, a primary school classmate had lost his baby who was developing at the same pace as mine. The poor baby died from umbilical cord strangulation. It struck fear in me, and at my next doctor’s visit I asked the Professor if this could happen to my child.
Yes, was his matter-of-fact reply.
There is no sugar coating the facts. Pregnancy comes with several risks to the mother and child, or both. And I appreciate this fact so much that I was grateful for every day that went by without incident throughout my first pregnancy.
As if I had it too easy with my first (nausea and food aversion now pale in the face of this bleeding!), this pregnancy now truly tests my faith. And faith is really all I have to get me through now, until next Tuesday when I am due for a viability scan.