It was an interesting moment for me, as a mother, to hear my daughter's thoughts on miscarriages. Being only six weeks pregnant, I knew the risks in letting the news out too early. That is exactly why, just a mere week before, I gave her a little information on what can happen.
I explained every rational point, how a miscarriage is the body's way of ending a pregnancy that isn't healthy, and she was able to grasp the idea. I made it clear that, while I was optimistic about the pregnancy, things can happen, and that it's not really a BABY that is flushed out of the body, it's tissue ... potential, if you will.
A few days pass after this discussion and one afternoon she yells my name while she's taking a shower.
"Mom," she said, "If you had a miscarriage, would you cry?"
Not wanting to give it much thought or worry her, I just said, "Oh, I don't know."
"I wouldn't, and you know why?"
I expected her to say something about how she didn't really want a brother or a sister, that she'd be jealous of them. But instead she said something so insightful, so thoughtful.
"I wouldn't cry because there is hope. You can just try again."
Her words caught me by surprise and I was choked by the air in my lungs. I felt so moved, so stunned, that this sort of reason can come from a ten-year old.
As I sat in the emergency room a mere eleven hours later, I kept playing the conversation over in my head. Knowing full well that the cramping I was experiencing was now officially a bad sign, I tried to remember that there is hope. There is hope.
When the doctor told me the results of my blood tests - low amounts of HGCB, the "pregnancy hormone" - and that the ultrasound "detected no cardiac activity," I tried to remember what my daughter had said to me, how uncanny her timing was.
And now as I sit here, cramps twisting up my insides and losing the extra blood and tissue I've accumulated this past month, I try to keep it in my mind that there is hope. So much hope that a child can see it.
But maybe the ability to see hope in the dismal is one of the many things we lose with age. Along with the trim waistline, eyesight, hair and memory, we lose the optimism that spewed from us as children. Where a child sees adventure, excitement, possibility, adults (myself in particular) see eventual disappointment.
So I remain as I have always been - hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. (I actually had a fortune cookie that said that same thing.) But my kid is smart, intuitive and amazing. And if she says that there is hope, then I guess I need to believe her.