This pregnancy was uncertain from the very beginning. In the morning I woke Matthew up with the good news, but by that night I had some spotting and I cried myself to sleep. My bags were packed, and when I headed to the airport early the next morning I had tampons in my carry on.

But my period never came. And during the week I visited Rachel I felt pregnant. Achy boobs, bloating, peeing all the time, sensitive to smells. It wasn’t a chemical pregnancy, but my midwife was concerned it might be ectopic. Get an ultrasound, she told me.

So I did, at a little clinic that was probably a pro-life center. It was across the street from a college campus, and I was assigned an advocate who wanted to talk to me about my options. I assured her that there was no need – I’m married, grown, this pregnancy is very very very much wanted. I asked that Rachel come in with me for the exam. By the date of my last period, I should have been seven weeks pregnant. At seven weeks, an embryo and a heartbeat should be visible. I asked the nurse if she could print a photo for me to bring to Matthew. But she couldn’t find anything. Nothing at all.

Disappointed, I assured the nurse – and myself – that I was probably not seven weeks pregnant. Because of my long cycles and late ovulation, I was probably only four weeks. Four weeks is too early to see anything. Nothing is expected at four weeks.

Rachel had me choose yarn for a baby blanket. When I protested that it was too early, she told me that I will have a baby someday. The blanket is for my someday baby. That may have been the most hopeful moment of this whole experience.

A week later, back home, I called my midwife again. I told her about the ultrasound that showed nothing, I told her I’d had no further bleeding. Come in for a blood test, she said.

The blood test showed that my HCG levels were low – but the real information lies in how quickly they rise. They should double every 48 hours. So for a week I went every other day to have by blood tested. On the off days the nurse would call to talk to me about what it meant. Every time, I hoped I could feel hopeful.

I hoped for information that meant something. Hoping for confirmation that this embryo was where it was supposed to be. Hoping for a due date. Hoping to have something I could feel hopeful about so that I could share this news with the world.

I never got it. My HCG levels went up by 70%. Then 60%. Never 100%. The nurses and midwives and obstetricians told me it wasn’t clear. It could be nothing, and we just needed to wait for them to get above a certain level and they could do an ultrasound (nothing usually shows up on an ultrasound until your HCG is above 2,000. Mine only ever got to about 1,400). It could be bad news, an unviable pregnancy. But it was impossible to tell.

Friday I had a pelvic exam. I didn’t have any symptoms of an ectopic, the obstetrician told me. I had to wait and see.

Saturday I had another blood test. I was bleeding a little. I thought it was from the pelvic exam.

Sunday I woke up with cramps. More bleeding. I felt it in the pit of my stomach, I told Matthew I thought it was over – but when the midwife called with the results of my blood test (the HCG was still rising, but not doubling) she told me my symptoms didn’t sound concerning. Some women bleed during pregnancy. Cramping is a sign that your uterus is growing. Maybe it was ok.

The bleeding and cramping increased, and by 8:30pm I was doubled over in pain. Crying. Rocking. Vomiting. I called. Come in, they said.  Matthew drove.

In the labor and delivery unit, they treated me gently. They gave me medication, and heating pads, and thin scratchy blankets. They kept me away from the pregnant ladies – it would have been upsetting for all parties. They did an ultrasound. Can I see? I asked. There’s nothing to see, the tech replied.

It’s a miscarriage, they confirmed. Go home and sleep, they told me. I did. I woke up the next morning with no pain. I went to work.

It’s been a week, and the bleeding has slowed. We’ve told our immediate family. I will go back to the doctor later this month to talk about next steps.

I don’t know how pregnant I was. Maybe six weeks?  I never saw the embryo. I won’t have a baby bump at my sister’s wedding this summer. I won’t have a newborn in the fall. I don’t have to avoid deli meat or oysters or sushi or alcohol any more.

I have cried and cried. I am still crying every day. We want to be parents. You want us to be parents. My body has failed us. Twice. There is a lot I don’t know and don’t understand. There is a lot I will never know or understand, and I will still need to find a way to make meaning of it. I’m not sure how to do that yet.

For now, everything is heavier. For now, I nap almost every day. For now, I allow myself to feel disappointed and confused and angry and sad. Hope feels far away to me. It had been just out of reach for most of this short pregnancy, and it feels farther away than ever now. But I think it will probably come back. Like the spring, hope will return when it’s time and it will leaf out and blossom. For now, its still winter.