I was ecstatic when I discovered I was finally pregnant with what was to be our first child. It had taken 12 months of trying hard to conceive. Lord only knows how much money we spent on Ovulation detection kits. Month after month, there was heartache and tears when the menses appeared.
I even read this book. I read every page. Every word.
My doctor refused to do infertility testing on me when I was beyond discouraged and in his office after 11 months of trying and repeatedly failing to get pregnant. I begged. My husband had been tested and his fertility was fine. “Only after you’ve tried 12 months,” my Ob/Gyn said. “Who knows…. that 12th month might just be your lucky month!” And it was. I conceived that 12 month. I squealed, jumped for joy and wept when my home pregnancy test came back positive. The doctor confirmed the pregnancy. I drove home feeling so happy, I thought my heart would burst.
The weeks passed and then came bleeding and severe sickness and an ultrasound. I had a bad feeling about this pregnancy. But I was assured there was a heartbeat and everything was fine. I still wasn’t convinced. I couldn’t see life on the ultrasound or anything that resembled it.
There was more bleeding and more tests. There were blood hormone levels checked and another ultrasound. Then I got the phone call with words I never wanted to hear. “The fetus you are carrying is not viable.” And I’ve hated the word viable ever since.