If my life were a movie, this is how this act would end:
The beta would come back positive. It would be nice and strong, and it would double appropriately. There would be a baby with a heartbeat at the first ultrasound. There would also probably be another blood clot, just to add some suspense and an excuse for some scary but ultimately meaningless bleeding later in the first trimester.
The ultrasounds would go well, every week. I would feel sick occasionally but would spend the rest of the time putting my feet up, basking in my pregnant glow, and being an exemplary (read: never frustrated) mother to E.
I would stop all the medications, one by one.
Nothing bad would happen.
The baby’s scans would look perfect, right up until I graduate from the clinic.
I’d spend the rest of the pregnancy with my midwives. There would be a few more anxiety-inducing moments (need to keep the viewers’ interest!) but in the end I’d give birth without any major complications. For hilarity the baby might come very close to being born in the (rental) car en route to the hospital. Or maybe the baby would arrive at home before the midwives could get there. But it would all turn out well in the end.
She’d be a girl, of course. Brown eyes and brown hair. The child who haunts my dreams.
E. would show absolutely no signs of jealousy and we’d fade to black with the four of us nestled in our bed at home, deliriously happy, probably all dressed in white.
But my life isn’t a movie.
And so it ends like this:
A phone call from the clinic.
A negative beta.
And a broken heart.