Ever since I miscarried last week, I’ve had this phrase rolling through my mind:
Luxury of an Oops
It has occurred to me that having an “oops” pregnancy, while unexpected and kinda stressful, is actually a luxury. At least from the point of view I’m coming from. See, I’ll most likely, as confirmed by last week’s miscarriage, never have the luxury of “Oops! We’re unexpectedly pregnant! Well, haha—guess God decided it was time!”
See, that won’t be us because of my ridiculous genetic blood protein chromosome something something problem–the beautiful MTHFR. My problem is not necessarily in the conception–it’s in the keeping of an embryo. I’ve conceived four times (to my knowledge), and I have one child. Bad odds. That’s because my body doesn’t seem to know how to sustain a pregnancy without lotsa blood thinner shots, baby aspirin and uber amounts of folic acid to help my own body combat, well, itself. In order to keep my child. Sheesh. What a mess!
You may recall that Erik and I went a LONG time without conceiving before we struck gold with little Joshua. I truly believe God heard, and not only heard but answered our prayers. Our prayer was quite specific, and truly, I don’t know if we really knew what we were actually asking for. We prayed:
“God please PLEASE don’t let us miscarry again. Please don’t let us conceive until it’s going to stick and carry.”
Well, after miscarrying our second in September of 2007, I did not conceive again until August of 2009. Let me tell you–that’s a LOT of trying and failing. A lot of praying and waiting. A lot of wishing and hoping.
God does answer prayer. He knew we needed to find out about MTHFR. He knew I needed to be with the right, arrogant, aggressive doctor who would treat this contested disorder. He knew I needed to be on certain shots and drugs even preconception for little “Bubba” (now Joshua) to stick.
He knew, He heard, and He answered.
And after this quite unexpected pregnancy that ended not unexpectedly in miscarriage, I ask of my Lord again. Please, Please, don’t let me have another oops if it’s just going to end like this. I’d rather find the specialist, pay the money, do the shots that bruise my skin and turn me ugly shades of yellow, purple, black and blue. I’d rather take the horse-sized pills, cut the caffiene, endure the blood draws, and mess with my hormones. I’d rather do all this then be reminded again some time in the future that my body does not have the ability to–on it’s own–sustain a tiny little embryo past 6 weeks.
I won’t ever experience the luxury of an oops.