Ever since I saw that little plus sign on the pregnancy test, I've been wondering how I would tell people. Or, rather, when I would feel comfortable telling people.
There's nothing like a previous miscarriage to put things into perspective. Even though our little embryo is developing rapidly every second of every day, I know it's fragile. That life can be taken away with as little explanation as, "It just wasn't right."
The months after my surgery were difficult. My body healed much more quickly than my heart, but eventually, my husband, Jerry, and I were ready to entertain the idea of children again.
Although we wouldn't admit aloud that we were trying, it became difficult just seeing other new parents -- especially the ones screaming at their toddlers in front of us at the grocery store. I wanted to pull them aside and whisper, "Be grateful."
I guess it just didn't seem fair. I don't smoke. I don't drink. I exercise. I eat right. And yet, in the end, none of it mattered.
So this time around, I was much more cautious and guarded. We didn't tell anyone right away, except for our parents, and we swore them to secrecy.
As much as a part of me wanted to climb on the roof of my house and shout the news to anyone who could hear, another part of me remembered the pain of losing our first pregnancy, and it forced me to keep my feelings in check. I tried not to get too attached to something I knew I had little control over.
But, oh, I got attached. We both did. Within a few short weeks, we had names picked out, mentally decorated the nursery and even started imagining what our little bundle might look like.
Reality set in again when I got sick and my pregnancy symptoms started to wane.
Sure, I was grateful that the scent of Jerry's daily tuna sandwich didn't send me running for fresh air, but a sudden loss of symptoms was what tipped us off to trouble last time.
My heart broke. I couldn't concentrate on anything until our appointment a few days later.
When a familiar nurse greeted us with a hearty "Congratulations!" it took everything not to burst into tears. I told her about my suspicions, and, because of my history, she immediately ordered an ultrasound.
Jerry accompanied me into the exam room, and a doctor there explained matter-of-factly that she would be checking the "viability of the fetus."
With little fanfare, she announced there was a heartbeat, but I had enough enthusiasm for everyone in the entire building as I screamed out with joy.
When she turned the monitor to show me our blinking blob and pointed out the head, eyes and arm buds, an inexplicable range of emotion washed over me.
I know it's still early. I know we have months and months to go, but my faith has been renewed.
I have three odd-looking ultrasound photos to prove it.
I'm pregnant. And now I can say it loud and proud.