On Thursday, September 17, I woke up to
a wonderful surprise: a positive pregnancy test! We celebrated in private for a
couple weeks, then shared the news with our families when we couldn’t contain
our excitement any more. Our peanut would be due May 29th, 2016. We
started planning where our new baby would sleep and how we’d fit a crib in to
the extra bedroom along with the desk, guitars, and overflow of craft supplies
that we have stuffed in there. We talked about how Abby and her new sibling
would probably have circular crying fits at night, waking each other up, and
that we’d both have to get up and calm our respective babies. We threw around
name ideas. Mother’s intuition (the same that told me that Abby was a girl
early on in pregnancy) had me believing that our baby was going to be a boy.
As the weeks passed, I waited and
waited for morning sickness to start. I chalked it up to every pregnancy being
different, but had also heard (perhaps a myth) that the more sick the mother
feels, the healthier the pregnancy will be. I couldn’t shake the feeling that
something was wrong because I didn’t feel sick. Crazy, right? Almost wanting to
feel sick? I did feel plenty of other aches and pains and was looking forward
to second trimester, when most mothers feel a boost of energy, feel less aches
and pains, and could rest more easily in the knowledge that her pregnancy would
be a viable one.
On Saturday, October 17, exactly
one month after my positive pregnancy test, I started experiencing some red
flag symptoms that I hadn’t dealt with during Abby’s pregnancy. That same
mother’s intuition nagged at me and the following day, I called the on-call
OBGYN from my practice at the hospital. He warned me that my symptoms could be
a sign of an impending miscarriage and urged me to call the practice the
following morning, and to come to the ER immediately if things suddenly worsened.
I knew things weren’t right on
Monday morning. I called my doctor’s office and grew increasingly frustrated
because they weren’t answering their phone. I realize that, due to their line
of work, an obstetrician is not always readily available, but I was so anxious
to talk to someone that I wasn’t thinking clearly. Luckily, Jared has Mondays
off and he was home to help me keep my head on straight, and also to entertain
Abby. My mom had planned to come babysit Abby on Monday, October 26, which would
have been my dating ultrasound. Since I would be going in prematurely for this
ultrasound, she would come up that afternoon to watch Abby while we went to the
doctor. I had been calling my OBGYN since 8:30 and finally heard back from the
office at 11:00; my ultrasound would take place at 2:00.
I was a bundle of nerves as we
walked back the hallway. I stepped on the scale and they took my blood
pressure, which was surprisingly normal for all of the stress I was feeling. We
took an even longer walk back to the ultrasound room and the ultrasound tech
and my OB joined us a few moments later. We were grateful that my doctor came
in the room with us. It allowed her to explain what they were seeing as they
were seeing it, and it gave us a much shorter visit in the office.
Our baby should have been measuring 8
weeks and 1 day, but he was only measuring 5 weeks and 4 days. My doctor
explained that this could be because I had nursed Abby until she was about 13
months, and breastfeeding can alter a woman’s cycle enough that timing and
dating in a pregnancy can be different than what was expected. Then we saw
something beautiful that I likely will never forget – our baby had a tiny 70
beats per second heartbeat. We couldn’t hear it, but the little squiggly lines
(this is clearly the medical term for it) came up at the bottom of the screen.
Our doctor told us that she was cautiously optimistic. They would draw blood
that day to check my pregnancy levels, I would come back in two days for
another blood draw, and then in two weeks for another ultrasound.
Unfortunately, we didn’t make it
to another ultrasound in two weeks. We didn’t even make it to the 48-hours-away
blood draw. Things took a turn for the worst on Tuesday. Jared had already gone
back to work after his lunch break, and I took Abby back to her bedroom to
change her diaper. I felt a fairly severe cramp in my lower belly. I finished
with Abby and, much to her dismay, set her in her crib so that I could go to
the bathroom. The cramps quickly became more and more severe. I couldn’t stop
thinking, “this isn’t right, this shouldn’t
be happening…” Because family is wonderful and because of things like
parental intuition, my dad had happened to send me a text message while this
was going on to check on me. I told him and Jared both that something was wrong
and I was calling the doctor. I had no trouble getting in touch with them this
time, thank goodness, and they asked if I could come in right away. I called
Jared and, through tears, asked him to come home. The tears were partially
because I knew what was happening, and also because the pain that was I was
feeling was not too far from the pain of labor.
Fortunately, the ultrasound tech
was not with a patient when we got to my doctor’s office and we were able to be
seen almost immediately. Because of how quickly we had to leave the house, we
didn’t have a babysitter and Abby was with us. A long wait in the lobby would
have made for an unhappy toddler, but she happened to be in a good mood that
day and made things so much easier on us.
I laid back on the table and it was
exactly like the previous day: the tech came in, my doctor came in, and I took
a deep breath. The ultrasound was started, and my doctor delivered the news:
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but what we
saw in there yesterday isn’t in there anymore.”
I couldn’t believe it. I knew all
along that it was happening and I had prepared myself for it on some sort of
shallow level, but can you really fully prepare yourself to hear news like that?
My OB was gentle and caring and patient and she wiped my tears away while she
talked to me. She handled everything exactly the way that it needed to be
handled. As she was working on me, she asked how old Abby was. She delivered
Abby and I can’t imagine how many babies she’s delivered since July 27, 2014,
so we didn’t mind reminding her. She shared with us that when her oldest child
was 14 months (just like Abby), she experienced a miscarriage. She then went on
to have twins. She encouraged us that the majority of the women she sees that
have lost a baby go on to have completely normal and healthy pregnancies that
result in an equally normal and healthy baby.
My doctor gave me instructions about
the prescription that we’d pick up that would finish the process, what to do if
my symptoms worsened over the next few days, and information about my
appointments that would follow. She stepped up next to my shoulder and told me,
“Everyone tells me that my job must be the best in the world, and that it must
be so much fun. They don’t think about how hard this is, that this is my least
favorite part of my job. People will try to be helpful but they don’t know what
to say to women that have experienced a loss, and they will say stupid things.
Just be ready for that.” Luckily, the only people we had to immediately share
the news with were our family and Jared’s coworkers. Because we’re blessed with
wonderful family and Jared has great coworkers, none of them had anything
stupid to tell us, so we found a lot of comfort in the conversations that would
follow with them.
I felt so many emotions just that
night, and even more in the days that have followed. I immediately felt guilt.
It must be a mom’s fault when her baby doesn’t survive, right? Then logical
Beth stepped in and I realized that literally everything I did at the beginning
of my pregnancy with Abby – the foods I ate, didn’t eat, the drinks I had, the
medicine I took and didn’t take – it was all the same. It clearly worked out
okay with her, so I settled with the fact that losing my baby wasn’t my doing.
I still wrestle away feelings of guilt, but I’m so grateful for the healthy
pregnancy that I had with Abby and for the ability to compare the two. Her
life is proof that we are capable of conceiving, carrying, and delivering a
perfectly healthy baby and I’m exponentially more thankful for her every day
because of that.
I feel cheated out of many
things. I won’t lay in bed at night, trying to fall asleep between baby hiccups
rocking my belly. I won’t feel his elbows in my ribs and his feet kicking me. I
won’t spend the months of April and May packing our hospital bags, buying tiny
newborn diapers, tucking away little clothes washed in that delicious-smelling
baby detergent, smoothing freshly-washed sheets over a new crib mattress, and
wondering whether or not that was a real contraction and if I need to be
getting in the car to head to Wilkes Regional. I won’t have middle of the night
bonding with this child, staring at him, simultaneously wishing he would just go.
the. heck. to. sleep. and being so grateful that he’s not sleeping and that
I get to rock my baby. I won’t have cuddly naps on the couch, I won’t chase him
around the living room like I do Abby these days. I think about what he would
grow up to be, who he would have married, what his children would have been
like. Your mind does a lot while grieving, whether you want it to or not.
I’ve been angry, sad, confused,
guilty, and nostalgic for newborn days. At times, perhaps in moments of
clarity, I feel relief. Imagine that our baby had made it to May 29th
as he should have, was born, and then became too ill to survive. As
difficult and painful as miscarriage is, I absolutely cannot imagine what
parents go through who lose a child once they’re actually born. My heart breaks
for them and I’ve remembered that general group of people in my prayers on several
occasions since our own loss.
We are now four weeks out from my
miscarriage. I thank God for our family and that my mom could spend the
majority of that awful week at our house with us. She took care of Abby – fixed
her food, changed her diapers (Dear Mom, I could get used to that!), chased her
around, kept her from playing with dangerous things…the usual
taking-care-of-a-toddler responsibilities. I was so physically and mentally
drained that there was no way I could have been momma hen the way that I would
have needed to be. Because of previous plans we spent more time with family
over that weekend. Parents are fantastic and our conversations, rehashing of
memories, and laughing were so healing to me.
If you’ve made it this far in my
post you deserve a gold medal and you may be wondering why I decided to share
our story at such length. It is heartbreaking how common miscarriage is. I’ve
seen various statistics, but one that sticks out in my mind is that
approximately 20% of pregnancies will end in a loss. These odds mean that if
you saw five women today, one of them has likely had a miscarriage. It’s terrible
and unreal and hard to believe, but it’s a fact. Think about the large amount
of women you know – how many of them have had an experience exactly like
ours?
I hate that women feel the need
to keep their pregnancy losses a secret. I understand that it is hard to share
and that at times it feels almost shameful, but I wish it didn’t have to be
that way. By sharing our story, I’m not hoping to rake in heaps of sympathy,
although prayers are always appreciated. I sincerely hope that my story will
help somebody else that has gone through this recently or several years ago or
that may go through it in the future, although it is my greatest hope that no
one that lays eyes on this blog post will ever experience a miscarriage. In my
line of “work,” being a pastor’s wife and a stay at home mom, I have contact
with so many women and I want these women to know that they can talk to me or
cry with me or sit on a couch and watch pointless daytime TV with me if that’s
what needs to happen to help them heal when they need healing. We are a
community and that’s what we do for each other.
What does this mean for our
future? I firmly believe that in God’s time I will have a beautiful
(nausea-filled, sore-ribbed, hiccupy-belly, achy-back) pregnancy and that Abby
will have a little brother or sister. I will snuggle that baby and will complain
that he or she wants to nurse too much and will rejoice with happy dances when
he or she takes a bottle from Jared. I will wake up in a panic one morning and
think that I slept through our baby crying overnight and then we will realize
that, no!, our baby slept all night! I will chase him or her in the toddler
days, I will think, “where on earth did that kid get those scissors?!” and I
will marvel at the seemingly magnetic properties between a wall outlet and a
toddler finger.
I am now one of millions in a
growing community of women that have experienced a pain and loss that I think
no woman should have to feel. I sincerely want any woman reading this to know
that she has a friend in me and that whether I am able to help her or she is
able to help me, I'm here and will continue to be here.
A great friend and fellow pastor’s wife
called me the day of my miscarriage to check on me and she told me that we have
a beautiful baby Blair in heaven that we will one day meet. If that’s not a
beautiful, comforting thought in the midst of a terrible and terribly confusing
time, I don’t know what is.
