b'reishit in through the looking glass.

As we enter the fourth day of the new year, I suppose it’s only fitting that I start this story in the beginning.

Sometime around November, we decided we were ready to start trying to have kids. But first we waited. Waited until I could find a better job, one that had a better leave policy and didn’t require an epic feat of transportation. I got the job. Then we waited another few months until I would comfortably meet the one-year requirement for FMLA benefits. And we ended up waiting one more month to make sure I would be able to fly to LA for our dear friend’s wedding in February.

It was still a shock when the second line turned blue as soon as I set the pregnancy test down on the counter, our very first month of trying. In fact, I was in such shock that I sat on the bathroom floor for nearly an hour, at 5 o’clock in the morning, searching terms on the internet like “false positive pregnancy test,” ended up taking another test a couple of hours later, and yet another test (a different brand, just to be sure) later that day. I couldn’t believe it.

We spent those first few days exchanging happy glances and marveling at our luck. There are so many stories out there about infertility now that we were sort of surprised at how easy it had been.

I was anxious, to be sure, because I’ve also read so many stories about miscarriage and other complications. But we still allowed ourselves the space to think about the future, to read with delight how the little embryo was developing inside me (now the size of a blueberry!), to plan how we would tell our families when we visited in November. I felt appropriately ill and exhausted, my breasts grew shockingly fast, and I once found myself alternatively crying and laughing at myself and my ridiculous, but oh so serious, emotions.

On Rosh Hashanah, we read lovely, contemplative passages about the changes to take place in the coming year and it took on new meaning for both of us. I glanced at David during Unetanah Tokef - “who shall die and who shall be born” - and remembered last year when he leaned over and whispered that perhaps we too would be expecting when the high holidays rolled around again.

I scheduled the first ultrasound appointment for the afternoon of the second day of Rosh Hashanah, 8 weeks and 2 days into the pregnancy. We were excited, but nervous.

I suppose I could talk about the exam itself, how there were signs during it that perhaps all was not well, but it seems cleaner to just come out and say it. The embryo was measuring two weeks behind. There was no heartbeat.

And that’s how I found myself, four weeks to the day after that positive pregnancy test, lying on our bed as David inserted the pills into my vagina that would induce a miscarriage. Afterward, we huddled together in an awkward embrace, sobbing.

Physically, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be, though I suspect that is partially because David took such, such good care of me. Emotionally, it’s been tough, but not unbearable. At the very end of the pregnancy book we checked out from the library, there’s a little chapter about miscarriage that includes a bit about the stages of grief. After David read it, he remarked that it seemed like I had cycled through every single one in the single night of fitful sleep we had between the appointment and taking the pills. For now it feels like I have, though sadness at the loss of the idea of this little baby still hits in waves, and I find myself preoccupied about what it means for the future. I know I’ll never be excited about a pregnancy in the same way again. I know I’ll never look forward to an ultrasound. I worry that this miscarriage wasn’t just a fluke, but that it will happen again and again. I worry about the choices we’ll have to make if it does.

I don’t want to speak for David and how he’s feeling, but I will say that I regret not spending more time making him aware of possible complications. At the time I didn’t want to worry him, but I do think it’s hit him harder in some ways because of that.

It’s not all bad. I can see how our relationship is already stronger because of this. I’m hopeful that I’ll be able to train and run stronger for the 10K we signed up for next month. I’m looking forward to the food and drink I’ll now get to enjoy on an upcoming vacation.

On the second day of Rosh Hashanah, mere hours before we found out the bad news, the rabbi spoke about how Judaism is not a religion that looks to force utopia in this world, but only to continually strive toward it. She talked about a prayer we say weekly, one of my favorites - chadesh yameinu k’kedem - renew us as in days of old. What are these days of old that we pray for? The Garden of Eden? Utopia? She explained that the word for old - kedem - can also mean east, and perhaps what we’re really praying for is to return to the time when Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden, looking back, east. Striving.

So in this new year, these Days of Awe, chadesh yameinu k’kedem.

We will keep striving.