Emily was one of the first to share her story on The Understanding Heart (and one of 3 Emily’s! Haha, we love you all). Her original story was written a year ago, right around Hazel’s first birthday. The following is her perspective of life after pregnancy loss.

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Life after loss feels like a revolving door that you’re not allowed to exit. It’s been two years since I dumped my beer down the drain after taking a pregnancy test on a whim. I couldn’t believe that there were two lines there. I held the secret in two days until my husband returned from his hunting trip because I wanted him to know in person. Only weeks later to have the elated feeling crumble into a thousand pieces. 

I used to get angry when people would tell me after losing Hazel that it wouldn’t always hurt this bad. How could I ever get over or feel better about losing a child. I’ve had to endure close friends, siblings, cousins experience pregnancy and birth all while in this inbetween. I say endure because it’s hard- some days forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other. It’s even harder to allow yourself the ability to be happy for them AND sad that it’s not you. I struggled with that a lot. It’s a hard fact to talk about but needs to be talked about more. How someone’s happy news literally brings me to my knees with tears flowing like a river. Why can’t that be me? Why do they get to bring their baby home? Why does it have to be so hard? Why do I have to hear my son’s pleas for a real baby? Explaining to an almost four year old why his sister is in heaven and not here is a very difficult thing. It makes my heart break into a million pieces. I wish it was simpler and I wish it was fair. Nothing about losing a child is either of those things.

In the almost two years since my loss I feel like I’ve been through a battle. Physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. I wish at this point my story had a happy next chapter, but we don’t. Sometimes pregnancy loss leads to an even longer road. In August 2021, a uterine ultrasound to get a baseline picture turned into a referral to a reproductive endocrinologist (RE)- tests, lots of headaches with insurance, and a surgery to remove a uterine septum. I was happy they found something that could have been the cause to my miscarriage. Surely removing it and healing would help me get pregnant again. 

Once we hit the 12 months of trying to get pregnant, I had to make the phone call back to the RE office for next steps. After more tests for both myself and my husband we were diagnosed with unexplained secondary infertility. That diagnosis really stung. It felt like my body failed me again. I felt broken and still do. 

We are in the throes of infertility treatments. My mind automatically goes to the what ifs. What if it doesn’t work? What are the next steps? Can I do more? Besides the physical, emotional toll, the financial toll is another issue. Nothing is covered by insurance- because apparently having a family isn’t something that we should be paying for, right? The number of phone calls I have made to the insurance company is far too great to count. This adds to the stress and trauma of this all. 

For the last two years I’ve felt like my body hasn’t been “mine”. Whether it was to house Hazel, deal with postpartum, hormones to regulate my cycle before and after surgery, hormones to induce a period after my 55 day cycle, more medications to induce follicle growth for intrauterine insemination, and hCg trigger shots. For someone with a fear of needles I am pretty darn proud of myself that I can give myself shots! 

I have many questions that come with no answers. How did the pregnancy that was so easy to come by be the one that didn’t make it? These things I will never understand. I lay my head down each day grateful for my (almost) four year old son that feels more like a miracle with every passing day. I hope for the day when I get to the other side of this storm and no matter the outcome I hope it brings me peace. Until then, I’ll keep looking for signs from Hazel to let me know she’s watching over us.