Last night was hard. I began spotting a few days ago, but it was so faint I could almost convince myself that I imagined it. Last night it became clear that I wasn't imagining things. I left Sadie and Mae with Nani, while Grumpa and I headed to the ER.
At the ER I described the symptoms and was relieved when the doctor told me that his wife had gone through the exact same thing for three months early in her pregnancy and had been fine. He didn't think it was likely to be anything to worry about, but ordered a ultrasound.
My relief began to fade during the ultrasound. The ultrasound tech couldn't tell me anything, but the look on his face, and the look on the face of the nurse in the room, were both very grim. When the doctor came back into the room a while later he looked very sad.
He said that the baby is alive, but that it is measuring eight weeks (I'm 13 weeks along). More worrisome, he explained was the heart rate, which at 90 beats per minute, was much too low. He went on to say that, at this point there's not really anything anyone can do and that, unless a miracle occurs, I will likely miscarry very soon.
And so we wait. And cry. I've been praying every chaplet I can think of (Saint Gerard, Blessed Kateri, Saint Jude, Saint Anne, Saint Philomena and Saint Padre Pio were the saints whose intercession I prayed for before sleeping last night and the rosary) and am clinging to the tiny bit of hope that remains. And I do appreciate all your prayers. We're supposed to leave for Florida on Sunday. I have a feeling the weeks ahead are going to feel very long.