On a Monday in March, I woke up with symptoms that made me 90 percent sure that I was having a miscarriage.
Less than 24 hours before, my husband Josh and I had told our respective sets of parents that we were expecting our first baby, his parents’ first grandchild, my parents’ fourth. I was just shy of two months pregnant. I knew conventional wisdom dictated that expecting parents wait until they have passed the 12-week mark before letting people know, but I had a good feeling about this one.
The doctor couldn’t see me until the afternoon after my worrying symptoms began, and so we waited at home in the suffocating staleness of grim expectation. I cried over every possible aspect of what I was pretty sure was happening. I felt like an idiot for being overzealous about sharing news of my pregnancy. I felt like the pain my parents and in-laws would feel after this would be my fault. I shouldn’t have told them. When he drove me to the hospital, Josh let me off at the front door and drove around the block, where he parked a block away and waited for me to text him.