October 20, 2025

I know it’s been a while since my last post.
First, thank you — to everyone who keeps reading, checking in, and waiting patiently between my chaos-filled updates.
And I’m sorry. Life’s been… a lot. But I think you’ll understand why by the end of this post.

Thursdays have always been my favorite day of the week.

They’re the hopeful in-between — close enough to the weekend to breathe, but still part of the routine. Thursdays always feel like a promise that good things are coming.

On Thursday, September 18th, I felt… off. A little weird. I couldn’t remember when my period was supposed to come, and amidst the chaos of still healing from childbirth (which, yes, can take a year or longer) and raising my six-month-old, I hadn’t exactly been keeping track.

Still, something in me said take a test.

So I did. I peed in the cup, dipped the stick, and waited.

When I checked a few minutes later, I saw what I can only describe as a squinter — the faintest of lines. Anyone who’s ever been in the trying phase knows that feeling — the flashlight test, the squinting, the desperate hope that your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you.

I took another test. Then a digital.

All confirmed the same thing: I was pregnant.

I cried, laughed, shook, and immediately started planning how to tell Mike. When he pulled into the driveway, I handed Noah the pregnancy test, set up my camera, and waited.

He came inside, smiling as always, put his things down, and walked straight over to Noah. He saw the camera and asked if I was recording. I said “yes” through a laugh.

Then he noticed the test.

He looked at me. Looked at Noah. Tears filled his eyes.

He said, “No…”
I said, “Yes.”

He hugged me, then Noah, and we all just stood there — crying, laughing, holding on to each other.

That night, we went to bed on cloud nine. Giddy, stunned, whispering like kids with a secret. We giggled about the possibility of another sweet miracle baby — one that somehow happened without science this time.

We hadn’t even gotten out of bed before we were FaceTiming my mom — pregnancy test in hand. The call started like any other. We showed her Noah, watched them laugh and giggle at each other. Then I said, “Noah has something exciting to tell you!”

She smiled and said, “What? More teeth?”

We laughed. “Nope,” I said. “Noah’s going to be a big brother.”

She froze, then covered her face and started to sob. “I’m just so happy,” she said through tears.

Next, we called Mike’s parents. We did almost the same thing — and got almost the same reaction. Shock, laughter, disbelief, and tears. None of us could believe it was real.

Over the next two weeks, we slowly told more people. We knew we were only five or six weeks along, but with Noah it had meant so much to have our support system rooting for us. We wanted that again — for this baby too.

As we approached seven weeks, we had our first doctor’s appointment. They did a urine test and a quick consult. It all felt so different from the first time.

With IVF, I had constant blood draws, lab results, numbers to analyze. There was always proof, always something to hold onto. This time, they just said, “Everything looks normal — no cramping, no bleeding? Then just wait for your ultrasound at ten weeks.”

Just wait.

At first, that felt fine. Then as the days passed, it didn’t. The reassurance started to feel hollow. I wanted confirmation. I finally broke down and called, begging for something sooner. They agreed to move my ultrasound up — the next day, when I’d be seven weeks and five days.

I was relieved. Excited. But nervous.

The next morning, one of our best friends — our neighbor — came over to watch Noah while we went to the appointment. I was grateful for her, and even more grateful for the distraction. She told us she’d think positive thoughts as we left, and I clung to that.

Mike and I drove in near silence, holding hands, both hoping for the same thing: a heartbeat.

We walked into the ultrasound room ready to see our little jelly bean baby. The tech started the scan and said nothing. She looked, adjusted, looked again.

Still nothing.

Finally, she said, “I can’t see anything.”

My heart stopped.

“We’ll try the transvaginal ultrasound,” she said gently.

Now my heart was pounding out of my chest. Is this baby okay?

She scanned again. “I see the gestational sac,” she said.

A small sigh of relief. That’s good, right?

Then: “I see the yolk sac.”

Good. That’s good… right?

I clung to the words like they were lifelines. For a second, I could breathe again.

Then she went quiet. Longer pauses. More scanning. More silence.

Finally, she said, softly, “I don’t see the embryo.”

The words hit like a physical blow.

“What does that mean?” I asked, my voice cracking.

She took a slow breath. “This is your uterus,” she explained. “Here’s the gestational sac — that means you’re pregnant. And because it’s in your uterus, that’s good — it’s not ectopic. This little circle here is the yolk sac — also good. It means the egg was fertilized. But… at seven weeks and five days, not seeing an embryo isn’t great. The sac is measuring six weeks and two days. That could mean you’re just earlier than we thought… or it could mean a miscarriage.”

There it was. The word I didn’t want to hear.

I looked at Mike as tears filled my eyes. She told me to get dressed. “You’ll talk with the doctor next,” she said.

The “follow-up” appointment they’d said we’d never need — because you only need it if there’s twins or a miscarriage.

She didn’t say twins.

And I didn’t want to talk to the doctor.

The appointment was two hours away. I called out of work. We went home and told our friend what happened. She nodded, looked at me softly, and said she’d keep thinking positive thoughts. Then she slipped out the door.

Everything after that felt like a blur.

I called my mom. We cried together.
I called Mike’s mom. We cried again.

“This could be fine,” I kept telling myself. “Maybe it’s just too early.” But then, in the same breath: This could be horrible.

When it was time to go back, Mike stayed home with Noah, and I called him on speaker so he could listen. The doctor — a man this time — repeated what the tech had said. “Come back in a week,” he said. “We’ll know more then.”

That was last Thursday.

I’m in limbo.

What will happen?
Is there a baby?
Is he or she okay?

There’s nothing to do. Nothing to say. Just wait for Thursday — my favorite day.
Will it still be my favorite after this week?

The next day, I started bleeding and cramping. The doctor said mild bleeding can be normal. But I was terrified.

How do you live in limbo?

I called out of work again. I couldn’t face anyone. Everyone knew. We told everyone. They’d see it in my face.

Two days later, my results posted to my portal. They didn’t sound as scary as I feared, but I still didn’t understand them. So, desperate for clarity, I pasted them into ChatGPT and begged it to explain.

It said:

What the Ultrasound Shows

• The pregnancy is in your uterus — not ectopic.
• The gestational sac measures six weeks, two days — maybe accurate if I ovulated late.
• A yolk sac is present — development is underway.
• No fetal pole yet — can still be normal at this stage.
• Cervix is long and closed — no sign of active miscarriage.
• Spotting could be from the corpus luteum — normal.

Final Encouraging Truth

Today, you are still pregnant.
Today, your body is still supporting life.
Today, it’s okay to hold cautious hope.

I’m trying to trust that hope.

Mike is always hopeful — he carries it for both of us.

I keep reminding myself that when I was pregnant with Noah, I had no hope. And now here he is — smiling, perfect, asleep in my arms as I write this.

Will he be a big brother?
Will this be okay?
Thursday feels too far away.

My favorite day — will it still be my favorite?

Limbo sucks.

But now, dear readers, you understand. Here we are — waiting, hoping, praying.

Please let this baby stick and grow. Please let this be a fluke.
There’s no way God would give us another miracle without science just to take it away.
Why would He do that?

Pray for me.
Pray for Mike.
Pray for Noah.
Pray for this baby.

Let this end happy.
Let me keep my Thursdays.