Once the craziness of the birthday party was finished, back into the moving idea. I kept researching and interviewing and the further I got, the further I realized how unlikely (read: impossible) it would be to get the price that we needed to get out of the house. That realization was tempered, however, by the two pink lines that appeared one week after my party.
I was ecstatic. I was thrilled. My husband produced a (credible) excited response. The timing was perfect. I would be pregnant all winter, have a baby in the spring and not die of heat while nine months along. It was ideal and exhilarating and wonderful. Yes, the house thing was a disappointment, but hey, I would have a sweet ball of babyness to make up for it.
All of that happiness lasted exactly one week. That was when the bleeding started. It was a Saturday and heavy enough to warrant a phone call to my midwife who ordered me to the ER. I could barely answer their questions as they hooked me up to an IV and took blood work. Four hours, and an ultrasound later there was a verdict: the pregnancy had miscarried. The Doctor went on to report that it had been ectopic, and that this could be the best outcome. I left in a cloud of disbelief with orders for a follow up with an OB on Monday.
*If you have no idea what is going on, start here.