My period is five days late. I’ve been here before—waiting, hoping, trying not to read too much into it, but something about this time feels different. Or maybe I just want it to.
I take the test anyway and wait the five minutes, pouring myself another coffee to distract myself before walking back into the bathroom and—there it is. I see a second line.
I take another test just to be sure. Then another. Each one says the same thing: I’m pregnant. A smile spreads across my face. I start to cry. I can’t believe this is happening. We’ve been trying since February.
I’m going to a close friend’s wedding tonight—someone I’ve known for almost 15 years. My husband John’s already there. I almost text him, almost tell my best friend, almost say it out loud to someone—but I don’t. Not yet. Because as quickly as the thought comes—I’m going to be a mom—another one follows right behind it: What if something goes wrong?
I pack my bag as quickly as and pour my second cup of coffee. But wait—I’m pregnant…should I only have 200 mg caffeine, or is it 150 mg? I don’t know—I’ve never done this before, but I can’t wait to research it all. No time for that now. I have to get to the wedding venue.
I haven’t eaten breakfast—just coffee. Normally I’d brush it off and go about my day, but now it feels different. I have more than just me to think about. I need to eat something so I stop at the grocery store for snacks—and another pregnancy test. I need to check again because it still doesn’t feel real.
I take it in the store bathroom and, sure enough, the second line appears. I start to cry again, alone in the stall. But not really alone…I’m carrying my baby.
I continue the drive to the venue and pull out a beef stick from the bag. I take a bite—then pause. Isn’t there something about not eating deli meat while pregnant? Do meat sticks count? I quickly Google it (while driving, which I know is not smart—especially now). Meat sticks are safe. Nice. I take another bite.
I get to the venue and can’t find John. The cell service is terrible. I feel a flicker of irritation—I can’t keep this to myself much longer. I spot the groom who looks so happy. We hug, and I feel it too. He has no idea I’m pregnant. I smile to myself. It’s kind of fun, this secret.
I wander around the venue, still unable to find John. I try to find the bride, but I’m too late—she’s already gone to get ready. I run into friends—some I see every week, others I haven’t seen in years. One of them picks up on my anxious energy and tells me to eat. Right. I’ve still only had a beef stick.
I’m waiting for food at the truck when John finally finds me. Relief. But we’re surrounded by people and I’m starving. I’ll tell him after lunch. We sit down to eat, and just as we start, a group of guys pulls him away for pickleball. I sigh. It’s fine. I should enjoy myself too. I’ll get him alone before the ceremony.
My friends are swimming in the lake, so I decide to join them. I’m allowed to swim while pregnant, right? I think so. It’s just no hot tubs. Besides, my baby is the size of a poppy seed right now—at least that’s what my app says. So tiny. It will be fine.
I finish swimming and realize there’s only an hour and a half before the ceremony—and we still need time to get ready. I start to worry John will play pickleball until the last minute, so I go to find him. When I get to the courts, he’s sitting out a game on the sideline. Perfect. I tell him I need to talk for a second, and we walk off into the woods.
I pull a pregnancy test out of my bag and show him. It’s not some big, cinematic moment. No dramatic reveal. He just smiles and pulls me into a hug. He’s probably in shock. I still am. I tell him about my morning. “This is so exciting!” he says. I tell him I’m going to relax before getting ready, and that he should go enjoy time with his friends. He kisses me, and we head back in different directions.
I’m so glad that’s off my chest. I head back toward the lake and crack open a seltzer—not a beer. It feels important. Not just a choice, but a responsibility. One I’m actually happy to take on. Am I making this too big of a deal? I don’t know.
We watch our friends get married while I try not to touch my belly. I don’t want to give anything away. It feels silly since I’m only four weeks and not showing at all, but the urge is there, and I have to suppress it.
We eat good food, laugh at the speeches, dance and talk with friends. Somehow I make it to 11:30 p.m. I wanted to stay up later, but I’m just too tired and I’m growing a human inside me now so I need to take care of it—and myself.
John still has energy, so I tell him to stay out as long as he wants—in nine months, we won’t have this kind of freedom. He walks me back to the cabin. We hold hands. It’s simple and I feel completely on top of the world.
I wake up at 5 a.m. with intense nausea. We’re in a summer camp cabin with other people—I can’t throw up here. I feel bad waking John since I have no idea how late he stayed up. But I do. We go outside, and I start throwing up. It sucks, but I find myself thinking, I guess this is morning sickness. I guess this is really happening. I joke that if anyone can hear me, they probably think I partied too hard last night. But I didn’t. I’m just pregnant.
Later that morning, we drive home. My stomach starts to hurt, and I assume I’m just hungry—or that this is what the first trimester feels like. I’ve heard from everyone and their mother that it’s the worst.
We get home and start unloading the car. John pauses, pulls me into a hug, and tells me it’s finally starting to sink in—this is really happening. He’s so excited. It feels early, but we decide we want the baby’s sex to be a surprise. We can always change our minds later.
It’s mid-day now and I’ve eaten, but my stomach is still hurting. It’s hard to describe exactly what it feels like, but I’ve never been pregnant before. I know cramping can be normal this early—my body is going through so many changes. I lie down and hope it helps, but by evening the pain is not letting up. I decide it feels like really bad indigestion and Google tells me that’s common in early pregnancy. I’m not worried.When I call my OB/GYN tomorrow to schedule my first appointment, I’ll ask about it—just to be sure.
The next morning, I call my doctor’s office—excited to schedule my first appointment. October 16 at 1:30 p.m will be our first ultrasound so I text John to block off his calendar. Before I hang up, I ask if I can speak with a nurse or doctor about the stomach pain I’ve been having. I’m not too concerned, but I’m supposed to fly to the UK tomorrow and want to be safe.
A nurse calls me back. I tell her I’m not bleeding, that the pain is all over (not on one side) and that I don’t have any other symptoms. She and the doctor aren’t concerned. She tells me to take Tylenol, that Tums are safe, and that I’m fine to fly to the UK tomorrow. If anything were to happen, they have good healthcare there. I take that as reassurance. It must be nothing.
But as the day continues, the pain only gets worse. It’s bad enough that I can’t focus on work so I end up taking the rest of the day off. I feel guilty about it—I’m about to be on vacation for almost two weeks.
I lie down for a nap, but wake up in terrible pain, doubled over. I go to the bathroom, take some Tums, and start passing gas. John and I laugh—maybe that’s all it was. It brings a little relief to my knotted, cramping stomach—and my mind. We go to bed saying, “We’ll see how I feel in the morning.”
It’s 7 a.m. on Tuesday, September 23. My little brother’s birthday. But that’s not what’s on my mind. The pain is so much worse. Something feels off. A wave of nausea hits and I rush to the bathroom, dry heaving for a few minutes. I go back to bed and tell John there’s no way I can get on a plane to the UK this afternoon. Even if nothing is seriously wrong, I’ll be miserable.
I lie in bed for another 30 minutes while John starts getting up for the day. I try to sit up, but I’m hit with intense pain on my right side—so strong it knocks me back down.I think about the baby and check my underwear—no blood. Phew. Isn’t your appendix on the right side? Maybe that’s what this is. I’m not sure, but the pain is so bad now I’m writhing around and crying.
I tell John we need to go to the hospital. I’m in a lot of pain, but I’m okay—we can drive. I tell him he should take the dog out first, since we might be gone for a while. ER waiting rooms take forever.
He leaves the bedroom to take the dog out. I start to feel nauseous again, but this time it’s different. It’s everywhere—my legs, my fingertips, the back of my neck. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is. It’s like my entire body might throw up. I need to get to the bathroom. I hobble there, doubled over in pain. As I step through the doorway my legs start to give out.
My entire T-shirt is soaked with sweat in seconds, and I’m freezing. I know something is really, really wrong. I spot my phone on the floor but I can barely reach it. When I finally grab it, my hands are shaking so violently I almost drop it. I can’t remember my password—but I remember the pattern. It unlocks. I think to call John, then realize he’s outside, but I panic and call 911. The operator asks my name and what happened. I tell her. She asks for my address. I give it. She asks for my phone number—but I can’t remember it.
She tells me that’s okay and to just listen to her until the ambulance gets there. I try, but fear takes over and I start yelling for John. He’s outside and can’t hear me. When he finally comes back in, he finds me on the floor. I tell him I’m on the phone with 911, that an ambulance is on the way. He puts a pillow under my head. It feels good. The tile floor is so cold.
On the ride to the hospital no one’s told me what’s going on, so I finally ask. Someone says they’re “suspecting an ectopic pregnancy.” I’ve heard of it and vaguely know what it is, but I also know it’s rare—no need to scare myself with something unlikely.
When I get there I’m put into a room fairly quickly. Someone comes in and starts talking, but my vision is tunneling. I can’t really hear him anymore. My body starts buzzing again, like it did on the bathroom floor. I feel terrified. I’m shaking. Nothing feels real.
Someone starts cutting my shirt off. I don’t know if I’m fully conscious. I think I am—but maybe not completely. I hear something about surgery. I look up at the doctor. My peripheral vision is gone—I can only see his face.
“So I’m not going to have my baby?” I ask. “No, sweetie. I’m so sorry.” I start to cry. They begin giving me blood. It makes me freezing. They pile warm blankets on top of me, but I’m still shivering. John is there now, holding my hand.
The OB comes in—Dr. Jones. She explains the surgery. It’s an emergency procedure to remove the pregnancy and my fallopian tube. They’ll try to do it laparoscopically, but if there’s too much blood to see clearly, they’ll have to open me up.
John kisses my forehead and tells me he loves me. I tell him not to call my mom. He says he won’t, then they start rolling me out of the room. We get on an elevator, and then I’m in the OR. I feel scared, but also strangely calm. They move me onto the operating table. It’s hard and uncomfortable. They place an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose and I hear them talking—about me, not to me. Dr. Jones starts petting my hair, telling me everything is going to be okay. I believe her and then I fall asleep.
When I wake up, I’m in a regular hospital bed with a nurse sitting next to me. She tells me her name is Ethel and that I’m in the post-op recovery area. The surgery goes well and I’m doing just fine. I’m so thirsty. She brings me apple juice, and it tastes so good. I ask where John is. She says she doesn’t know—they didn’t have a phone number for him, so she didn’t know who to call. She asks if I know his number. Somehow, I do.
John is here now, holding my hand. I don’t really know what happens next and I’m still a little out of it from the anesthesia, but I know I’m hungry, so Ethel brings me applesauce and Goldfish. I feel like a little kid and strangely, it feels good to just lie here with no responsibilities. Ethel tells us we’re waiting for Dr. Jones to come talk through the surgery, and then they’ll probably send us home. I panic. I don’t want to go home yet. I’m scared. I tell her, and she says she can get me a bed for the night but that we should talk to Dr. Jones first.
Dr. Jones comes in and tells us the surgery went as well as it could have. It was an ectopic pregnancy. The fertilized egg had implanted in my fallopian tube, and the tube had ruptured, which is what caused all the bleeding. They were able to do the surgery laparoscopically, which means recovery should be easier. They had to remove my right fallopian tube, but they were able to keep my ovary. They removed as much of the blood from my abdomen as they could. No one says it out loud—but we all know. My baby is gone.
With the help of the doctor and nurse, I try to get out of bed to walk to the bathroom—but I pass out. When I wake, I tell Ethel I want a bed for the night, and she makes the call. John starts figuring out someone to take care of the dog. I tell him it’s okay—I feel safe—and that he should go. I’ll text him if they move me before he’s back. He kisses me and leaves.
They move me before he returns. I’m in my own room now. It’s surprisingly comfortable. There’s a window to my left, a bathroom, a TV. I turn it on—the sound comes through the remote. I didn’t know that was a thing, but it makes sense. Keeps things quiet. It’s almost dinner time, and the nurse asks if I want a tray. I say yes. The food is actually good—penne with sauce and meatballs and green beans on the side.
I eat alone, watching The Office. John still isn’t back. I hope he’s okay. I can’t imagine how traumatic this day has been for him—alone the entire time.
John’s back now, and he looks exhausted. I wish I could stand up and give him a proper hug, but there’s an alarm on my bed—I’m not allowed to get up without a nurse. He tells me he called my mom and my brother. Suddenly I remember it’s my brother’s birthday, so I text him. John eats his dinner, and we start getting ready for bed. I’m worried I won’t be able to fall asleep, so the nurse gives me something to help. I fall asleep pretty easily. I hope John does, too.
I wake up the next morning in the hospital and I immediately know why I’m here. They bring me breakfast—waffles, sausage, fruit. John finishes what I don’t eat. They ask if I want coffee. I light up. I’m allowed to have coffee? They say yes.
A doctor comes in and walks me through recovery. My hemoglobin is still low, but not far off from what they discharge new mothers with. Ouch. I’m not a new mother, but I should’ve been. Before she leaves, I ask if I would have died if I had gotten on that plane to the UK. She says almost certainly yes. It sends chills through my body.
Around 2 p.m., the nurse wheels me to the ER entrance. John has the car and meets us outside. It’s a beautiful, sunny day. I thank the nurse who helps me into the car. I turn to John and tell him I want McDonald’s french fries. We head straight there.
It’s around 3 p.m., and I’m home. Our friends have already started a meal train. Someone is coming in a few hours with chili. I feel like I don’t deserve it. Guilty. Uneasy. None of this feels real.
The next day, I’m lying on the couch when I hear John in the other room, sobbing. I ask him to come to me, but he says he needs a minute. He promises he’s okay. When he finally comes in, we cry together. He tells me how scared he was, how alone he felt and how he thought he was going to lose me.
We talk about everything—what happened, his parents, both gone from unexpected medical emergencies, and how something similar almost happened to me. We talk about past relationships, our flaws, our fears. I’ve never felt closer to him and somewhere in it, I think: everything is going to be okay. Maybe there is meaning in this.
It takes a full week for the loss to hit me. My baby is gone, what could have been is gone and the hope I felt just days ago evaporates. Despair takes its place. I let it. I cry and cry and cry for hours. There’s no guilt, no anger, no sense of responsibility—just despair.
That night, I get into bed and my mind floods. I barely sleep. My thoughts feel like a hundred tiny toddlers, all desperate for attention—each one a small part of me that just wants to be heard. Not forgotten. Too young to soothe themselves. I owe it to them. Every one of them. The question that won’t leave me is: Am I a mother now?
It’s complicated. Even if it hadn’t nearly killed me, the pregnancy wasn’t viable. I was only four weeks. I had only known for three days. My friends would probably say, “Yes, of course you’re a mother.” Maybe they think it will make me feel better or that it will honor what I went through. But it feels like bullshit. I feel different—but I don’t know if I’m a mother.
I feel somewhere in between—not quite one, not quite the other. What do you call that? A sort-of mother? An almost mother? I feel robbed.
A friend texts me: “That sweet baby will always be your first. They just weren’t ready to come into the world yet.” And I sob. No one has said the word baby until now—not even me. It’s always been “the pregnancy.” But a pregnancy is a baby—or at least, it’s supposed to become one.
Maybe I am a mother now. I still don’t know, but I know I still want to be.
But it feels like bullshit. I feel different but I don’t know if I’m a mother.
I feel in between a mother and not a mother. What do you call that?
A sort of mother? An almost mother? I feel robbed.
A friend texts me and says “That sweet baby will always be your first. They just weren’t ready to come into the world yet.” And I sob. No one has acknowledged my baby yet, not even me. They just say “the pregnancy.” But a pregnancy is a baby, should become a baby, right? Maybe I am a mother now. I still don’t know. But I know I still want to be.
And maybe that longing—that love for something I only held for a moment—is its own kind of beginning.
