Log into BabyCenter and "delete" your family. This will stop all emails related to your pregnancy, including any pesky advertiser emails for things like breast pumps, diaper services, or winning free cord blood storage. Also, when you delete your family, they automatically take you to a list of miscarriage resources. That's convenient.
Log into BabyCenter under the name and password you set up for your husband, because he was totally into the weekly emails you were getting about your pregnancy and the state of your uterus. Delete his family, too. Then log into his email, search "BabyCenter," and delete every email he's received from them, eliminating all painful reminders that for a brief five-and-a-half-week period, you were expecting a baby to arrive this August.
Run through the list of people you updated yesterday to see if you missed anyone. Realize that there are still three women from your old, in-person Resolve support group you haven't told about the loss. Also a family friend who may or may not be reading your blog. Four more people to tell, and that should be everyone, right? No, there are two others from that support group you told, too. Or is it three? Do a quick count. Realize that a whopping 24 people knew about your all-too-brief pregnancy. More, actually, because you're just counting the people YOU told, not the ones your husband told, or the ones that were told by the people you told. Even so, 24 personal contacts seems excessive. You thought you wouldn't care about having to tell these people about a miscarriage. (You were wrong.)
Overanalyze every little twinge and cramp. Why do you feel like you're about to get your period? Are those miscarriage cramps? Oh, no, you just need to go poop. Visit the bathroom to confirm. Yep, those were poop cramps. Later, after you've scrubbed your hands in hot, soapy water, explore your cervix to check for bleeding. None of that happening (yet). Breathe out a sigh of relief.
Consider having sex with your husband. There's nothing sexy about miscarriage, but you've been craving physical closeness with your husband since you first knew the pregnancy was in trouble. It's been months since you've been intimate (that's IVF for you!). Worry not about the sex itself but what happens if you happen to orgasm. You've been told not to because it could cause uterine contractions. Will those uterine contractions be strong enough to expel a fetus that you're trying to hold in for five more days? Decide to remain celibate.
Get morbid. It's weird to you that you're carrying a deceased, grape-sized fetus in your uterus, isn't it? Weirder still that you're taking her on vacation. But that vacation was already planned. You look forward to this vacation every year. The hotel is nonrefundable! You have to go. Have to. But what will happen to her over the next five days? Even though your doctor told you to drink your face off, you can't help but feel doing so would be toxic to the baby who no longer is. I mean, you get that she's gone - that her little heart is no longer beating - but still. She is in your womb. What effect does alcohol have on a fetus that is no longer growing? Is this something you need to be concerned about?
Call your clinic to see what options you have for the D&E. You can't fathom having to be conscious for the evacuation of your first and only pregnancy. It seems cruel. Inhumane. Get a message that reminds you the office doesn't open for another hour. Fuck. You'll have to call back later.
Move forward. This is happening. It's really happening. On some level, you know this. On another, it hasn't fully sunk in. But it will. If not now, then soon.
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