12 weeks

Somewhere about twelve weeks ago, my husband and I conceived a child. Today is a hard day. If I'd managed to make it to this point (which I thought, when it happened, was only a week away) my chance of miscarriage would have been at around 5%, or less. According to the doctor, before the heartbeat is seen, the chance is near 30%. After - between 7ish and 12 weeks, where my baby died - it's 20%.

Seems incredible, doesn't it? Almost one out of three pregnancies end with a baby who can't survive. Some women don't even realize they're pregnant before it's gone.

I guess I've finally reached a place where I can be happy for those brief weeks that I knew my child, though it doesn't make the pain of losing him any easier.

Television shows should come with warning labels that are a little more specific than the regular ones. Warning: do not watch this episode if you have lost a child. Last night was the worst night since Friday. We'd missed the last two episodes of Battlestar Galatica because of my mom's visit and Friday's surgery, so my husband popped on the TiVO. Lo and behold, less than ten minutes into the second to last episode, there's a baby shower looming at me from the screen.

I don't get to have a baby shower.