My First Baby

There was a line. There was definitely a line.

After 3 months of trying to conceive, my husband Jared and I crammed together in our apartment’s old retro, pink-tiled bathroom to analyze the first pregnancy test I’d ever take. We squinted, turning it this way and that to be sure. But it was there. Faint, but there.

I was going to be a mother.

After calling the doctor to set up a time to check my hCG levels, we went on a quick weekend getaway to Portland, Maine. We were both glowing. The world felt so full of possibilities for our little family, and my body felt so full of life. We wandered around the cobbled downtown streets suggesting, and vetoing, first and middle names. We had a girl name at the ready, but a boy name would be tricky. We laughed at how bloated my belly looked just 5 weeks along. I looked much more pregnant than I was, and even though my baby app informed me that my little one was currently the size of a sesame seed, I had started cradling my belly in my arms.

On the way home, we stopped at the nearest baby clothing store. We sifted our way through adorable onesies and footie pajamas. Little knit hats and soft, fluffy blankets. Baby booties, which are pretty useless for babies who don’t walk yet, but were cute and felt necessary to have. Walking out of the store with purchases for our little ‘line on the stick’ made our baby feel real.

We broke the news to our parents in grand fashion by presenting them with grandparent onesies. Grandma Loves Me. Grandpa’s Partner In Crime. My father-in-law’s face contorted with emotion in a way I had never seen before. He took me into his arms and sobbed unabashedly into my hair. My stepmom (who I call Mom) couldn’t contain her excitement, switching back and forth between giggles and happy tears. Dad stared at me as though all of his wildest dreams were coming true.

I started to imagine how my life would soon change. I had always wanted to be a mother, but never imagined the reality of holding a newborn in my arms and knowing that I was responsible for that little life. My brain was full of hundreds of new questions for my own mother; questions that would never be answered because the woman who gave birth to me died when I was 6 years old.

While thoughts like what kind of mother will I be? consumed me, I had to carry on with my day-to-day life. I couldn’t tell anyone about the beautiful secret I was carrying around with me everywhere I went. Jared and I were mostly adhering to that “12-week rule” that says not to share your pregnancy news until you’re out of the first trimester. So I did my best to go on with life as normal, with no alcohol and limited caffeine.

At the time, I was choreographing a teen production of Evita, a musical about the life of Eva Perón, First Lady and Spiritual Leader of Argentina. A strong yet controversial woman who rose from rags to riches. A woman who had many detractors, but was ultimately defeated by her own body.

One Thursday night, I was working on teaching military choreography for soldiers who opposed having a woman, and especially this woman, in charge. I was demonstrating rigid, sharp and precise dance steps that I had spent hours creating. I felt strong.“Okay, let’s take five,” the stage manager called.

I hurried to the bathroom so that I’d have time during my break to grab a snack afterwards too. It was then, in that sterile college campus bathroom stall, that I noticed the first drop of blood.My heart plunged into my stomach and then bounced back up too high into my throat. Breathe, Kira. I had to remind myself because I don’t think I did breathe for ten seconds.

What did a little bit of brown blood mean? I went immediately to Google, which had already become my greatest obsession and my worst enemy on my journey to conceive. I searched every variation of “what does brown spotting at 6 weeks pregnant mean?” Some results said that spotting was normal. Some said that it had to do with the implantation of the fertilized egg to the uterine wall (and that “brown blood is old blood!”) Some said that it was a sign of early miscarriage.

I glanced at the time. I had one minute left of my break. I had no choice. I needed to get back to the soldiers and back to giving marching orders.Ten minutes earlier, I had been dancing with confidence and strength.

Now, I took every step with caution, doubting every single move. Would one wrong step make the bleeding worse? Did I stomp too hard before break? Should I be sitting down and resting? Is the blood my fault?

My fault.

I finished the rehearsal in full panic mode. Then I grabbed my bags and hustled to my car the second rehearsal ended.

I slept at my parents’ house that night. Jared was working late and I didn’t want to be alone. Every time I went to the bathroom, the brown blood taunted me. Always just a little bit, but always there. I went to bed that night cradling my stomach, willing the little life inside of me to keep on growing. My dreams, when I finally fell asleep, were sharp and blood red.

When the morning came, the brown blood continued. When I couldn’t bring myself to leave bed, my dad came in to comfort me.

“I know you’re scared,” he said. “But you can’t let that fear overtake you. Especially since you don’t know what’s happening yet, or if anything is happening at all.”

But fear was consuming me. Fear that my body couldn’t do this. Fear that I would let my entire family down.

“I feel like I’m going to lose the baby,” I managed.

Then my dad just held me as close as he possibly could, and I sank into the old comfort of his arms. He told me about fears that I never knew he had, both rational and irrational. “It can be paralyzing,” he said. “But you can’t let fear just swallow you whole.”

In the end, he told me that no matter what happened, I was strong enough to endure it. And we would all get through it together as a family.

Jared came to get me a little while later after I had calmed down. We first went to the doctor to get my levels checked (results would come the next day). Then we decided to go grab some lunch before I had to be at Evita rehearsal. I wasn’t in the mood to eat anything, so he chose a takeout place where we could just order at a counter and sit with our food.

“I’m pretty nauseous,” I said, and I had no idea whether the twisting knots in my stomach had to do with the pregnancy or my anxiety.

“Just get a sandwich or some fries,” he said. “Try to at least eat something.”

I let him order something for me, but as we were waiting for our food, I knew something was wrong. I went straight to the bathroom, and there it was — the bright red, violent blood of my nightmares.

I don’t remember how I got off the floor. I don’t remember how I opened the door and made my way back to Jared. But I don’t think I had to speak words. I think my face spoke for me.

We called out of rehearsal and said I wasn’t feeling well. I spent the rest of the day on the couch under a fuzzy blanket, periodically slogging to the bathroom whenever I felt those telltale stabbing pains. Willing myself not to look as I flushed and flushed and flushed my little secret down the toilet. Over and over again.

“It will be over soon,” Jared said after my third or fourth trip. And we held each other under the blanket once again.

I called my parents and I told them what happened. I told my dad that fear had won this time. And that night, I let the pain of it swallow me whole.

The next day, I was back at rehearsal carrying a different secret. I was still bleeding, but I smiled at the kids as I warmed them up for the day. I was exhausted and drained, but I danced anyway. I stomped and marched along with the teen soldiers. I shut down my own feelings when we rehearsed the scene where Eva’s body finally failed her.“What is the good of the strongest heart in a body that’s falling apart? A serious flaw…”

My doctor called with the results of my blood work while I was on a break. The results just confirmed the reality that my body already knew. I was told that the bleeding could go on for days, or even weeks.

The day before, I had been glowing with my secret. I was living my life and carrying a life. But on that gloomy Friday, I couldn’t see through the fog. My body was failing me, and my first baby was gone.