I’m writing this from our spare bedroom, where a few hopeful onesies hang on the door, my positive pregnancy test boasts from its spot on the desk, and empty menopur bottles are lined up along the edge to remind us of the excitement of the egg stimulation.

We went in for our 8-week ultrasound this morning. The whole experience was just off. We were already having a tough couple of days but we felt like the second ultrasound was going to get our moods back on track. They had lost our appointment so we had to wait for an hour in a cold room. Our doctor wasn’t in, neither was our IVF coordinator. When we had our first u/s and everything looked great, our doctor had hugged us both and said we would graduate after today’s appointment. When we finally got into the ultrasound room, the doctor said “something doesn’t look right.” On the screen, the mass that used to be turning into my baby was silent and immobile. She said she didn’t see a heartbeat, then checked the doppler, which was silent. According to the u/s printout, the heartbeat stopped a week ago.

I can’t believe this is happening. It’s a horrible feeling, losing something that was so important, was changing your life forever, was altering your body, making you her home, settling in for the long haul, and is still inside you but no longer alive.

Having to be at the clinic after the u/s was awful. The doctor had us meet her in an office and explained our options – a D & C or taking the medication to extract the pregnancy. J and I cried and comforted each other alternately. I was terrified about work – I just started a new job and I can’t miss a day of work. They don’t know I was pregnant and I don’t even know my new supervisor’s cell phone number. Just let this tissue pass in peace, today or tomorrow, so by Monday I can at least act like things are normal.

We went to the pharmacy to get the misoprostol. The girl was really nice. She looked at me and I could tell she understood, and I started crying again. She got our meds ready in 3 minutes, the fastest I’ve ever seen.

At home I shook out the four pills I was to take vaginally. Four little white hexagons that will get rid of something we wanted so badly, something we worked for and planned for, something I’ve been protecting and falling in love with for weeks.

Today feels like a nightmare. I’m scared to go to sleep because I’ll have to wake up and remember what happened. The medication hasn’t worked yet and I’m anxious about what it’s going to be like. I feel a lot of cramping but that’s it. J is sleeping. We don’t know how to get through this experience without just feeling every pang of disappointment, shock, confusion and grief. And sleeping. There’s no way out but through.

I know that miscarriage is often a part of pregnancy. My own mother had several miscarriages and ended up having a life full of motherhood. I think what’s bothering me the most is the savings J spent on this pregnancy. We can’t recover the thousands and thousands of dollars she saved for many years, and decided to invest in our baby. I know that money should be the farthest thing from my mind right now, but with IVF, you go through so many months of appointments, medication regimens, huge bills, surgery, procedures, building up hope where there used to be money. Now it’s all gone – the hope and the money. I wish we could just go home and “try again” but it’s not like that. We have only two embryos left, and even if those implant, this could happen again.