This post is a continuation of Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3.

Two weeks passed while I mustered up the courage to see a doctor.  I had no idea how far along I might be since as part of my ignorance-is-bliss strategy I had been purposefully not paying attention to my cycles.  Jeremy had been making regular inquiries into my health and being very solicitous, but he carefully avoided any baby discussions.  I did as well.  I kept waiting for the painful cramping and the rush of blood that I knew would be coming at any minute. 

When I spoke with friends and family about the baby, I always smiled and summoned joy, and most of the time it truly was genuine joy.  I tried hard not to worry, and since I have a good imagination sometimes I was able to convince myself briefly that there were no reasons to worry.  My close friends were all praying for us and the baby.  They knew cause for fear loomed large and real, but they also know that God hasn't given us a spirit of fear.  They also know that God only gives good gifts.  They also know that God is powerful and loving enough to take any situation and use it for good.  So they prayed.  And prayed.  And prayed.  I, on the other hand, had a hard time praying.  I would start prayers and leave them unfinished.  I would begin thoughts and never complete them because...well, I don't know exactly why.  I suppose it was because I still wasn't sure what I thought of it all.  I wasn't sure what to pray for.  I had gotten comfortable in my baby-less state, and I wasn't really sure I wanted that to change.  Also, I had prayed for my other children to live, and God had said no.  He had better plans for them and for me.  Other than that first time right after the pregnancy test, I never asked God again to let the baby live.  Instead, the only prayer I could finish was, "God, please do whatever is best for us.  I know you only give GOOD gifts."  And I focused on waiting with open hands, choosing joy in whatever would come and choosing joy for the present moments as well.

You know, joy is not always a happy, jump-up-and-down feeling.  Sometimes, it is a quiet, peaceful, calm in the middle of extreme uncertainty.  I could see Jeremy's struggle during this time, and I was quietly amazed also to see his peaceful calm, even though we never discussed it.  Every night, he did ask me, "Do you still think you might be pregnant?"  And every night I responded, "I think so."

Finally, I knew.  It was time to see a doctor.  To put Jeremy out of his uncertain misery if for no other reason.  I wasn't really sure why I was so reluctant to see one, anyway, but every fiber of my being screamed to me, DON'T DO IT!  I spent several days researching doctors in my area.  I called offices and interviewed poor unsuspecting receptionists and nurses.  I had a list of criteria, and I would not budge.  I was out to find the perfect doctor.  This was something I could pray about, and pray I did!  "PLEASE, God!  Lead me to the right doctor!"  I finally had the search narrowed to three, and I made interview appointments with all of them.  I made it very clear to the receptionists that I had not made a decision.  I was not there for a real visit.  I just wanted to talk with the doctors.  Jeremy stayed very involved in this whole process, and he had strong opinions on the candidates, as well.  But never once during this process did we talk about the baby that may or may not be establishing itself in my womb.

Eventually, a decision was made, and we chose a doctor.  Jeremy asked if I wanted him to take off work to be with me for the first official visit, but I didn't.  Why make such a big deal out of this?  I fully expected the doctor to tell me, "Yes, you were pregnant.  The test was accurate, but you are not pregnant any more.  We don't know what happened, but no.  No baby."  I don't think I blatantly faced that thought, but it swirled around with all the others. 

Credit to www.sciencemuseum.org.uk

The visit was going perfectly fine.  I loved the doctor.  He was easy to interact with, and we had the same ideas on how to handle things.  Then he asked me to go to the restroom and provide a urine sample.  "Sure.  No problem." I told him smilingly.  I went to the bathroom and peed into the tiny cup provided and all over my hand as well.  (Someday, I'm going to invent a urine sample cup designed for women.  It will have a giant funnel on the top, and I will become a bazillionaire.)  I screwed the cap onto the cup, dried off the sides with a paper towel, and washed my hands thoroughly.  Then I stood with my forehead against the wallpaper and shook so badly that I could barely remain upright.  This is why I didn't want to come here!  My brain screamed in anger.  This is why I wanted to stay away from the doctor!  I couldn't bring myself to leave that sample to be tested.  Strong anger coursed through my body.  Anger at doctors for wanting to know things like facts instead of just relying on my word that I'd taken a test at home.  Anger at babies for having the audacity to die.  Anger at God for not stepping in and changing the course of history.  I stood there and watched myself storm out of the bathroom with the precious sample cup in hand, yelling wildly at the receptionist and anyone who tried to stop me while I marched right out the door and into my van waiting in the parking lot.  I watched myself speed down the interstate defiantly facing the blaring sun shining into my eyes.

Then the nurse knocked on the bathroom door and asked, "Are you okay in there, Missy?"

"Uh.  Yeah.  ...  I'm finished."

I opened the door and meekly handed her the warm cup.  Then I went to my room like a good little patient and waited without tears for the doctor's news.

To Be Continued...