I remember taking a home pregnancy test three times one morning.
I remember trying to decipher if there was a second line or not, and leaving a note for my husband before I left for work, asking for his opinion.
I remember deciding a line is a line. I was pregnant!
I remember figuring out our due date of February 2, Groundhog Day.
I remember calling the doctor's office because after our second loss, I was diagnosed with a blood clotting disorder and was supposed to start on blood thinners with my next pregnancy.
I remember being disappointed that instead of scheduling a time to learn how to give myself injections, I was scheduled for a pregnancy test.
I remember getting my blood drawn in the office that was oh-so-familiar and wondering...hoping...praying that I would be coming back often, for the next nine months.
I remember waiting for the phone call that would tell us if my hcg count was good.
I remember the phone ringing, and the nurse calling, after hours, to give me my results.
I remember my hcg count. Eight. High enough to confirm that there had been a baby. Too low to give any hope.
I remember hoping anyway, reasoning that every baby has to start somewhere.
I remember when that hope ran out, two days later. The nurse had been right. My baby was gone.
I remember grieving, and anxiously wondering if I was allowed to grieve, if such an early loss was real.
I remember being comforted and encouraged by friends who gave me permission to grieve the death of my child, however small.
I remember choosing a name that could work for either gender, but also one with great meaning, thinking of the children of Israel crossing the Jordan River, into unknown territory, and following God as closely as they could all the way.
I remember turning forty a week later and wondering if Jordan would be the last baby I carried.