Raina’s second birthday party was a blast and we loved celebrating with family.  The day was sunny, a chill in the air and her giggles filled the house. This year she finally understood how to open a gift.  But, I think her favorite part was the cake as she dug right in and kept saying “more, more.”  Our focus was her that day although in the back of my head I was distracted.  It was this same day last year that we were pregnant.  Ketan and I kept quiet with just the secret between us.  This time of year brings amazing memories, but also some of great disappointment and sadness.  We lost that pregnancy at the beginning of November 2015.

Tuesday morning arrived and I was a pile of tears.  I sat in the waiting room just to pick up the little slip of paper to take to the lab for the blood work.  Jenny called me back and I broke down in tears.  Although I was having symptoms I was so scared.  Scared that the symptoms were in my head, scared that the medicine was playing games on my body.  I pulled it together and took the elevator to the second floor for the blood draw.  The tech was amazing and I hardly felt the stick. It was the pit in my stomach that I felt.  I told her to say a prayer for that vial because it was special, all while tears streamed down my cheek.

I went off to work and tried to focus on the day — a good distraction anyway.  I glanced at the clock around 1pm thinking the results were probably in.  I picked up my cell phone around 1:20pm and could see that there was a voicemail from Jenny.  Although I was ready to hear the results Ketan and I decided that we would listen to the voicemail together after Raina went to bed.  And if I didn’t listen to the news it meant there was still hope.

It was 8:20pm and Raina was tucked into bed.  Ketan and I sat on the couch and held hands as we listened to the news.  It was a quick voicemail; only 25 seconds long.  “I am so sorry the test was negative.  You can stop all medications and call us if you have questions.”  Ketan and I looked at each other in disbelief, no words, no tears, just shock.  He looked at me and said, “I don’t believe it — do you have a test upstairs?”  We both went upstairs and sure enough there was only one line.  No more shots, I ripped off the patch from my abdomen and crawled on the couch in Ketan’s arms.

Each day that passed was a blur and the bright spot was Raina.  I believe that I crawled in the deep dark hole for a few weeks.  I would come home and just bury my head in Ketan’s chest and just say it was a bad day.  We didn’t talk much about it — I just did a lot of crying.

In the few weeks that followed I found it most helpful to talk to those friends that had been through this journey.  As much as I appreciated the friends and family that reached out; there is a comfort in talking to those that have traveled the same path.  This is one of those clubs that you don’t want to join but there is an unspoken understanding from those in the circle.  For those of you on that list (and you know who you are) I am forever grateful.  You provided a shoulder to cry on, a book of knowledge based on your own path, a hug that says I truly understand and inspiration that life goes on.

It is now 3 weeks since the negative test.  The sun continues to come up and I am starting to put one foot in front of the other.  I saw an amazing grief massage therapist the other week and I didn’t know those even existed.  And I started to see a counselor last week too.  That is always an interesting process since I have a masters in counseling.  But nonetheless its a place to dump my thoughts without judgment.

I am surprised that I have not heard from the doctors office.  Not a call, not a note — nothing.  Treatment is over.  The journey however is not over, it is just a detour.