On October 12 2010 I became a statistic when my previously-perfect pregnancy ended at 21 weeks in a horrific miscarriage.  While I fretted and worried from the moment I found out I was pregnant (was that frappuccino I had the other night really bad? I had a hot dog at the baseball game - will the nitrates hurt the baby?) I never really doubted that I would get through until February 22 2011, with just a few mishaps and freakouts, which was normal and to be expected of a pregnant woman.  

And on February 22, I would hold my little boy or girl (we were going to be surprised) and coo, make noises three octaves higher than my normal speaking voice; and after a few days of lounging in special pajama's I would buy especially for the occasion, holding court as friends and family visited and commented on my glowing complexion and beautiful baby, I would bring that baby home, and start mothering.  

It didn't quite turn out that way.

Instead, on October 12, after suffering with a little flu for nearly two weeks, my water broke at home, and I endured a horrific ride to the nearest hospital, at the bottom of my mountain, 30 minutes away.  I didn't know my water had broken, though. It wasn't until an hour later when I was in a room with an ultrasound machine that the doctors told me.

"You are miscarrying, I'm so sorry.  Your water has broken." 

I didn't understand.

"Can't you just put more water in?"

I mean, come on.  They can put a man on the moon, right?  They can't stick some new fluids inside my belly?  What kind of two-bit operation was this?  

But the doctor just shook her head.  No, I would have to deliver him.   And he wouldn't make it through delivery.  They would order an epidural if I wanted.  I wouldn't feel it.  It would be over soon.  

Seven hours later, I delivered my little boy, Baby Teysko.  Since we weren't going to find out if he was a boy or girl until he was born, I always just called the baby Baby T or Baby Teysko when I talked to him about what music we were listening to, and where we were going.  That is his official name on his death certificate, and I will not call another baby that. 

The epidural didn't work, so I felt every kick, every tug, every part of it.  I felt my heart being ripped from my body, leaving an empty chasm inside of me.  

And even though they were right, the labor and delivery was over soon enough, and soon enough I was in a new room with a comfortable bed and a working TV, the pain was just beginning.  

For several weeks it hurt to breathe.  I would take sleeping pills and then wake up thinking I was still pregnant, and hurt all over again when I realized I wasn't.  The weather wasn't helping.  It was raining in Southern California in October - the first time in years that we had so much rain that early in the season.  God was crying with me, I was sure of it.  

We have been given the all-clear to start trying again, and we will have another baby I'm sure.  I'm 34, so still young enough to try again without worrying too much about my fertility.  But trying again has unleashed a new wave of grief.  

This blog will be me, coping with that grief, trying to be happy so that Baby T can see his mommy laughing, and trying to move on now that I know things don't always work out the way they're supposed to.