First and foremost, we are just fine. We found a heartbeat and without any proper diagnosis, I can’t tell you what the golf-ball sized -something- was. They have no idea.

I was still visibly shaking when I started typing this. John and I sat nose to nose in the ER and for the first time in our relationship, we prayed and wished and found the small grain of hope we knew was there, inside.

Earlier this week, I had a full biopsy of my cervix done and went home to sleep off the pain. They normally don’t recommend or do colposcopies and biopsies unless medically necessary. I was troubled and worried about a miscarriage. Even walking into the ER, I think I said something about the doctor preforming something un-necessary.

After cramping since the biopsy, I called the doctor in tears when we noticed a very large, bloody something. (I am so sorry. I never intended to over-blog medical or blood, guts and gore.) Journalists don’t talk about this stuff. I write about tech. This is bizarre.

Most of the time, I’m even-keeled and I would have cracked a joke walking into the clinic. It wasn’t until the doctor said, “Kate, I’m so sorry. Let’s have you come in,” that I really worried. Then I dropped to my knees, (literally,) and bawled. I asked for prayers on twitter, sent a DM that ended up as a public reply and called my mother in hysterical tears. Everyone said, “We are so sorry.” When we arrived at the hospital, I was a mess and John and I hugged each other crying. I put the little thing in a  Dixie Cup, (which caused the biggest tears in the first place.) Whatever it was, a Dixie Cup, didn’t do it justice. I felt complete remorse over carrying it in.

My mother once told a story once of how my aunt bagged her potential miscarriage to bring in. (Strangely, they ask you to bring it in.) I always imagined I’d flush whatever it was, silently grieve and move on. Being a parent changes us. I actually asked the nurse, “If this is our baby, can we bury it? I can’t imagine it in medical waste.” She smiled and held my hand and I got a great hug.

I tell you: Sincerely, I’m not one of those women who would live tweet or ask for prayers. I believe more in karma and God in equal amounts. Something snaps when you become a parent and something the size of a fingernail captures raw emotion like nothing else. I imagined a million scenarios in one, single, instant. If something ever happened to my kindergartener, I’ve often wondered how many people I’d offend with the diatribe that would escape my lips. I might throw myself with her in the grave.  Nothing prepares you for the thought of loss. Nothing. We act differently, we choose differently and ultimately, our raw emotion makes us REAL.

That DM that went public, elicited over a hundred kind replies. People I’ve never met were praying and holding my hand and telling me it would be okay. We didn’t really read anything until we left the hospital, but when I did I was overwhelmed with gratitude and love. They say that social media can’t reach across the computer and hold you or change a flat tire. What it can do, is give you the strength to keep breathing and focus on the next steps.

Nurse after nurse checked on me, (they were incredible,) and they all stared at the dixie cup in amazement. It deserved a zip code. It wasn’t normal. I was almost proud. Whatever it held, was special, bizarre and also… gross. I asked John, “Did I overreact? What if this is nothing?” He said, “Kate, this is by far, the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

As women, we have such a hard time with ‘over-reacting.’ We fear people thinking we are making a big deal of something and the consequence of those same people judging us weighs far too heavily. I wanted to be non-reactional. When I saw the look on the doctor’s face when she witnessed the Dixie Cup, and put it in a bio-hazard bag, I knew something was wrong. And then I lost it at seeing the cup near the bio-hazard bag.

I saw John cry, for the first time. These weren’t tears of frustration after an argument or anger, this was a belly sob that made me realize how heartfelt his love for the baby truly was. We wheeled into the Ultrasound room and the technician handed me kleenex. If there was ever a gut-wrenching time, it was when we couldn’t find the heartbeat. I asked John if he sawanything in the seemingly gigantic black bubble. It wasn’t until a flicker came on the screen that I actually breathed.  If anyone has been through the ultrasound process, they know that as a mom? You don’t care about your cervix or your tubes or your ovaries, you care about seeing a little flutter that melts your heart. In moments, there she was, on the screen. The tears started over again. (I imagine her as a phoenix now, always climbing up from the ash and reminding us that only she knows.) Phoenix would be a great name.

The doctor came in with a big smile and rubbed my shoulder. It had shaken us all. They took the …thing and they bagged it up. The doctor mentioned my cervix was scarred and it could potentially be a mixture of scar tissue and a mucus plug or something else entirely.  She noticed large amounts of skin shedding. (I know, who blogs this, right?) This scar tissue was the reason I was not supposed to get pregnant.  Tonight,  I get to be pregnant for another day. To me, that’s exciting, terrifying and wonderful. If nothing else, this kid is teaching me faith, again.

If we get through this pregnancy intact, it’s going to be a miracle.

This child has no story of, “We got married, planned you and then you were here.”  It has a story of, “We wished for you, you reminded us of your strength and now, we can’t imagine US without YOU.” Normal is boring and frankly normal and typical just don’t match us.

To everyone that replied to us on  Twitter, gave a call, email and dm’ed, I need you to know how much it means. To everyone who actually read this, (Thank you.) I’m so sorry to gross you out and bore you in equal amounts with body stuff. (Although, I happen to think bodies are amazing.) We should respect them more and worry less about our ‘gross’ blood, and our ‘disgusting’ features.

I promised John that I wouldn’t type this tonight, but I lied. He’s sitting next to me and knows exactly what I’m doing. I took my Zofran and now, I’m heading to bed. The thing is, nothing will prepare me for the loss, if it happens. For each trial, you love those around you more. That’s what separates our real love from the fake love that so often infiltrates our lives. Those moments of pain and anguish, make love grow, not the other way around. And I really love you guys. Goodnight.