The first time I cried on Mother’s Day was in 2009. We were in our first year of marriage and just a few weeks prior, I thought I was pregnant. We were sure. I remember the night I told Zach that I was 90% sure we were going to be parents. He reached over and put his hand on my belly and we laughed. We were so excited. I took a test the next day. Negative. I took a test the next day. Negative. I thought maybe they were faulty tests. I’d never been late even a day and now I was a week late. It didn’t make sense. I made an appointment to go to the pregnancy care center to get a more reliable test done.
The morning of my appointment, I woke up with extremely painful cramps and a small pool of blood. I was horrified. Sobbing uncontrollably. I thought I was having a miscarriage. That’s how sure I was that we were pregnant. I went to the doctor later that day and she could neither confirm or deny that I had been pregnant. She said it was highly possible, but even if I was, it was a chemical pregnancy that never would’ve survived. Whatever it was, I was devastated. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to be a mom until that moment : the moment it was ripped away from me. (continue reading)