Category Archives: Pregnancy After Loss

Pregnancy After Loss

Life After Pregnancy Loss: Rachna

Rachna previously shared the story of the loss of her son, Rohan. This is another piece written by her of a more introspective look into her life after loss and her pregnancy after loss journey.

—-

The test is positive. I’ve been waiting for this moment for the last year. And even though I thought this moment would be “the moment”–the moment where my grief would at least be mellowed, and I could breathe a sigh of relief– it’s not.

I am in disbelief when I get my confirmation blood tests. I didn’t believe the ten pregnancy tests I took, and I don’t believe this test either.

My heart sinks when I start bleeding at 6 weeks. I demand an early ultrasound. I expect to see the worst, only to be told that everything looks perfect.

When I get the indeterminate results of my early genetic screening, I assume my baby has a high risk defect, even though follow up testing is normal.

I nearly break down when I am in the operating room at 13 weeks pregnant, feet in stirrups, a cerclage (cervical stitch) newly sewn into my cervix. The stitch that is somehow supposed to prevent the devastating loss I had last year.

I am frozen in disbelief at my 20 week scan, when my OB tells me to go on bed rest “just to be safe”. I essentially lay in bed for 8 weeks, scared that every shower, bathroom break, cough or sneeze is the beginning of another end.

A friend from college texts me that she is pregnant. I haven’t shared my news with anyone yet, and I am angry that she casually mentions her perfectly healthy pregnancy when she knows about the loss I went through. I block her texts and never speak to her again.

My heart fills with hope when I find out the precious baby I am carrying is another boy.  A boy who will never replace the one I lost, but who I am protecting with every fiber of my being in order to hold him alive, in my arms.

I have new strength when I make it to viability, further than I have ever been in pregnancy. It is immediately shadowed by worry. I just continue to count the weeks and days, looking up the statistics that my baby will survive if he’s born at 24 weeks, then 28 weeks, then 32 weeks…

There are moments of happiness, such as when I am allowed to go back to work. Yet my pregnant belly is also the prompt for heart-breaking questions like, “Is this your first?”

I find out my sister is pregnant too, three months behind me, happily buying things for her baby’s nursery, while my husband hides our necessary purchases in the garage, knowing even the sight of a crib may set off a panic attack.

I lay awake at night and try to feel my baby’s kicks, certain that there were more yesterday, and that something is terribly wrong.

The end of my third trimester should be celebratory, but I have more anxiety as time passes. It’s almost as if the further along I am, the harder it is to accept that if something goes wrong–this far along–I don’t/won’t/can’t have the strength to do it again.

It feels like I stop breathing.

I don’t breathe when I go in for the additional growth ultrasounds and heart monitoring I “get” to have because of my high risk pregnancy, I just wait to hear the words “I’m sorry” or “The baby’s not moving”. Those words never come, but I still wait.

I don’t breathe when I make it to 36.5 weeks and my cerclage is removed. The doctor shows me the thick band of surgical suture that has brought me this far, given my baby this chance, but I still don’t breathe.

I don’t breathe when I make it to my scheduled induction, in the hospital where I lost my first son.

And then, they lay my warm, wriggling baby on my chest, and I finally breathe. I cry tears of joy, then anger, grief, and fear. I cry every emotion I have felt in the last nine months–the last two years. Maybe that’s why they are called rainbow babies, because we experience the full spectrum of emotions while we grow them.

It doesn’t end there. Being a loss mom, there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about my lost son. I think about how I would have had two under two. How cute Rohan would look helping out his younger brother. How my family would feel complete.

I also spend some part of every day worried about my living son. Will he get cancer? Will he be in an accident? Will he get shot at his pre-school? Is this what being a parent is? Doing your best to protect your children, but reconciling with the fact that we live in a world where keeping them forever is not a certainty?

Pregnancy after loss is a special kind of hell. Everything is tinged with sadness and thoughts about “what may have been”. It’s just the way it is.

Shortly after I lost Rohan, I listened to a podcast about the idea of “meaning making” in grief. In the episode someone quoted, “Loss is what happens to you in life, meaning is what you make happen.”

I use Rohan’s loss to make moments of meaning with Sam. Enjoying his laugh, cheering on his first steps, gazing at his dimpled smile. I never shy away from holding him or kissing him, telling him I love him. I try to experience each moment fully–for the son I have and the one I lost.

Standard
Our Story, Pregnancy After Loss

Labor & Delivery After Loss

CW: mention of live birth, living children, birth trauma

My first daughter K’s delivery was peaceful, until it wasn’t.

I was almost 38 weeks and my water broke. I was contracting every 4 minutes and made it to the hospital in time. When I was triaged, I was 6 centimeters and 100% effaced. The next thing I knew, I was being wheeled to my epidural, put in an L & D room and given a popsicle while I waited for things to progress. 12 hours (and 2.5 hours of pushing) later, my daughter, my first earth-side baby, my rainbow, was finally coming into this world.

“I see some hair,” one of my nurses said.

My heart skipped a beat. All these months, years of waiting and I was finally about to see what my baby would look like. After a miscarriage at 10 weeks a year prior and months of trying to conceive before that, the journey to growing our family was finally coming to an end.

I would finally get to hold my baby.

I choked back tears, “what color is it?”

The nurse assessed and replied “I think it’s brown!” Tears streamed down my face. “Like me,” I thought.

“No, wait…” the nurse changed her mind, “blonde!” I cried harder. Even better. “Like my husband,” I thought. I couldn’t believe I would have a blonde baby.

I was having a baby.

A few more pushes and I felt the room stop. There was a silence and an intensity that grew. In that moment, exhausted and overwhelmed with anticipation, I felt myself separate from my own body, as if I were watching what came next from the other side of the room.

I felt an incredible amount of pressure. My husband wasn’t speaking. The feeling made me lose the rhythm of my breathing and made me sick. A scream climbed through my chest but nothing came out. What was happening? Was she okay? Why was no one saying anything? Could someone please say something?

And as quickly as the moment came, it went.

I was told my daughter got stuck, but she was okay and on her way. The process continued, everyone skirting past this thought as if it were a small hiccup in the day’s events. I followed suit and moved forward. Moments passed, people started to speak again, my breathing fell back into place and before I could manage to wrap my head around what had happened, my daughter was placed in my arms.

Crying,

Safe,

Here.

Finally.

—-

My care team had explained what happened in that out-of-body moment as a shoulder dystocia. A shoulder dystocia is described as an “obstetric emergency” where the baby’s shoulder gets stuck in the birth canal by the pelvic bone. This event can be harmless with some quick maneuvers by the doctor (as mine was), but has the potential to have dangerous complications for baby, such as nerve damage, bone fractures, and reduced oxygen. This isn’t including the side effects for birthing parents such as hemorrhaging, uterine rupture and separation of pubic bones.

At the time, I didn’t know any of this. I just knew it was a tough moment during delivery and moved on; my baby was here and safe, that’s all that mattered.

At my two week postpartum appointment, my doctor checked in as she “knew shoulder dystocias were traumatic” for both mom and baby, and even asked if my husband was okay. I wasn’t sure what to say – I truly thought nothing of it.

Later, when I asked my husband (who intended to stay by my head but was told to “grab a leg!” early on in delivery and couldn’t look back) if he saw her shoulder get stuck, he said he did. He shared it was a really scary moment and recalled the silence of the room. He told me how quickly the OB acted in a moment of crisis. He said K didn’t look good and – wait for it – that sometimes he had nightmares about it.

I couldn’t believe it. How had this been mentally affecting my husband for weeks and we were just now talking about the severity? How had we glossed over this event during delivery and our stay in the postpartum room? How had my baby faced this type of birth trauma and it wasn’t discussed further?

—-

Flash forward to March of 2023. I am pregnant again and at my first prenatal appointment. As early as I was, my OB brought up the shoulder dystocia again and said because I had experienced that, I could opt for a c-section to prevent another shoulder dystocia, or try to deliver vaginally again and hope the outcome was the same.

I was truly torn. For weeks, I went back and forth on what made the most sense. I had such a beautiful delivery with K; after so many months of fear and deep anxiety, I felt like my labor experience was the final moment of a marathon, sprinting to the finish with everything I had, because that’s what she deserved. It was empowering and beautiful. I will forever be thankful for that experience.

But as I continued to contemplate my options, I thought about Anthony. He seemingly may have nothing to do with this, but at the same time, he had everything to do with it.

When you lose a baby once, you never want to go through it again. You never want to go through it in the first place, but as we all know we don’t get the privilege of that choice.

Here, I had the privilege of a choice.

It came down to this: if I could prevent my daughter from going through pain or an unsafe situation, even if it was at the cost of my own discomfort and fear, I would do it a thousand times over.

I’m not afraid to admit, was terrified. I didn’t love the idea. Not that I judge anyone for having a c-section – quite the opposite. C-sections are no joke. Birth is no joke. But the whole process scared me. It was so different from my previous experience and there was so much I didn’t know (and if I’m being honest, didn’t want to know) going into it. The recovery, the pain, the sterility of it all.

But the thing I never questioned is why I was doing it – because the thought of losing another child scared me more than any operation. The pain couldn’t even come close.

—-

After much thought and consideration, I scheduled a c-section for October 24. The morning of, my nurses were prepping me for the OR. Among the IV pokes and vitals checks, they asked questions. When it came to why I was having a scheduled c-section after a seemingly routine vaginal delivery, I told them about the shoulder dystocia.

“Oh, so was your shoulder dystocia traumatic?” They asked.

“You could say that.” I said.

“Did anything happen to your daughter?”

“No, she was okay thankfully.”

My nurse paused for a second, “so, why have the c-section?”

I was a little surprised at her question. As if she could’ve imagined the thought that went into this decision. “How much time do you have, lady?” I thought to say. Instead, I took a breath and said “I had a miscarriage with my first pregnancy. And when you go through that, you never want to risk losing a child again, ever. So, I felt like this was the best decision to get my daughter here as safe as possible.”

Her demeanor changed. She apologized for my loss and continued to prep me.

I don’t share this story to say my decision was right or “the best.” I think every situation, family, baby, birth experience is different and that it is solely up to the birthing parents on what situation would give them the most peaceful experience that every parent deserves.

I also understand that you can make EVERY CORRECT DECISION for your baby and they can still not make it. It doesn’t change the fact that you are an amazing parent that made every decision out of nothing but love for them.

That being said, it was in that moment – explaining myself to the nurse that would help deliver my third baby – that made me realize how much being a loss parent played into my decision. How truly every decision you make for your family after loss feels more monumental than before.

If I could’ve saved Anthony, I would.

If I knew K was in that much danger during labor, I would’ve fought for her. I suppose I did without realizing it.

This time, I knew I could protect P.

So I did.

Simple as that.

Because that’s what mothers do.

So yes, my c-section was planned.

I was scared.

I was unsure.

But I did it for her.

And I would do it again.

Standard
Pregnancy After Loss

Pregnancy After Loss: Salina

In late June, I surprised my husband after our housewarming party with a positive pregnancy test. We’d been trying since we got married and were lucky enough to get a house big enough to raise a family in. Dating is not a sure thing, but estimates would have put our pregnancy at 6 weeks when I tested positive. We decided to keep the pregnancy close to the chest until our first ultrasound appointment 3 weeks later.

Like most healthcare appointments, my husband and I were very nervous leading up to the date. We were happy to find an opening at Lankenau, very close to our home and well-renowned for their maternity care. At the first appointment, the doctor was very knowledgeable and reassuring about the pregnancy. He helped us answer several questions about our expectations and we felt like we were in good hands going forward. After some talk, the doctor decided to finish the appointment with the ultrasound. The next few minutes felt like an eternity as they prepared. He searched for a moment and paused; we knew from what we were seeing that something was wrong. The doctor mentioned that what he was seeing looked more like a 5-6 week appointment rather than a 9 week ultrasound. He bluntly diagnosed a “blighted ovum” – the body was preparing for a pregnancy but there was no baby developing.

We went over the dates again with the doctor and he made it very clear that there was zero chance I was pregnant with a viable embryo. I burst into tears—I felt that my body had failed me. The doctor then informed us that I would likely miscarry at some point in the next two weeks and that if that wasn’t the case, he would prescribe misoprostol to induce the miscarriage. Our world shattered and we now prepared for a different reality leaving our first appointment.

After gathering ourselves, we left the hospital and went home to grieve. With the help of friends and family, we picked ourselves up and tried taking steps forward to put the loss behind us. I waited every day for the miscarriage to happen—the anxiety that came with waiting for the inevitable to happen became too much. I decided that I didn’t want to wait for the miscarriage and asked my doctor for the prescription. He obliged and I took the misoprostol. The medication made me ill and I felt like I was in a fever dream nightmare until morning. However, I noticed that rather than the expected heavy bleeding that comes with taking this medication, I bled very little. I reached out to our doctor the next day, and we made an appointment for the following week.

When I arrived to the follow up appointment accompanied by my mother (as my husband couldn’t get off work), the doctor entered the room and began discussing an ovarian cyst (he had confused me with another patient and had no recollection of who I was or why I was there). After being briefed on my case by me, he performed an ultrasound. Staring at the screen, we realized we were looking at a developing 9 week old baby—the doctor fell silent. The air left the room, and the tension was palpable. Why was there a baby now when there wasn’t one 2 weeks prior? How did we have a baby after taking the misoprostol? A million questions ran through all our minds simultaneously as the new reality set in.

The doctor looked at me and my mother, and immediately recommended termination. He then changed his recommendation after some Google research (I wish I was kidding.) and we scheduled an appointment with a specialist. As to be expected, there is very little information about misoprostol exposure this early into a pregnancy let alone any pregnancy. My mom and I left the appointment knowing very little about anything beyond that I was still pregnant and I was 9 weeks along with a seemingly healthy fetus. I called my husband and he was dumbstruck. The doctor had made it very clear in that first appointment – there was zero chance of a baby. Yet here we were, with baby still growing. We were able to see a fetal specialist the next day. He confirmed that our baby was healthy, and that we would continue to monitor for any abnormalities that could be caused by the misoprostol exposure.

If at this point you are wondering wtf happened (as we were), the only explanation that makes any sense is that I tested positive very early on in the pregnancy. For those who are planning on having children, figuring out ovulation cycles is an art that is a combination of both luck and science.  I have always had an irregular period, which made tracking my cycle even more challenging. My doctor never asked me about my period history nor did he seem to realize that could play a factor in the timing of our ultrasound appointment. From talking to the doctor, it seemed that we were actually 2 weeks behind the “timeline” based on the initial at home pregnancy test.

I’m happy to say that we have reached 39 weeks, and I am due next Sunday. I cannot wait to meet my miracle baby. 

Standard
Pregnancy After Loss

Pregnancy After Loss: Katie

Some people have described pregnancy after loss as holding your breath for 9 months. To me, holding your breath means you have some kind of control. I feel like it’s better described as gasping for air but not being able to fill your lungs.

My last pregnancy followed a soul-crushing time in which I lived through 6 miscarriages back-to-back, one with complications that traumatized me to the point that I’ll simply never be the same. Through that time, I had so many blood tests that my phlebotomist knew me personally. I had multiple procedures, including a uterine surgery that resected a septum thought to have caused my issue. But even after surgery, I had my sixth loss. I felt so defeated. I had a wonderfully compassionate doctor who had done everything she could possibly do in my situation, and I still couldn’t keep my baby. And I couldn’t stomach the thought of going through any more heartache.

But after finding a beautiful support group of women struggling with similar feelings, I decided to keep going. My desire to have another living child outweighed my exhaustion. And in a few months, that second line appeared… again.

How can so many conflicting emotions exist at one time?

I think for the first 5 minutes of that line appearing, I felt excited. But then I quickly dug a deep hole in the sand and buried my head in it. I didn’t want to call my doctor; I didn’t want to tell my family; I didn’t want to acknowledge what might finally destroy me if I lost this one too. I was paralyzed.

But this is when finding the right support group is so crucial. Because I chatted with my new friends every day. And while they couldn’t do anything about my crippling anxiety, they were there. They were my cheerleaders, giving me a sounding board to process everything, sitting in my feelings with me, and offering advice when I asked for it. No one ever really knows what to say. But showing up and checking in matters.

Given my history, I was a high-risk patient. Not only was I at an increased risk of miscarriage in the first and second trimester, but I was at an increased risk of my own health complications, including uterine rupture. I had more appointments and ultrasounds than most pregnant women. And while many women feel excited seeing their baby on the ultrasound screen, I found it triggering. Every appointment, I prepared myself to hear the same cruel words, “There is no heartbeat.” But this pregnancy continued.

I thought when I saw my beta blood tests come back great, I’d feel better. I didn’t. I thought maybe after my first viability scan at 6 weeks, I’d calm down. Nope. Surely when I made it out of the first trimester, I’d feel safer. I was waiting for a time when I felt comfortable and confident enough to share with family and friends that my daughter was growing well. But even after the 20-week anatomy scan, after the week of viability, after I entered the third trimester and officially became full-term, I never felt the joy you’re supposed to feel.

My entire pregnancy was me expecting to see blood when I went to the bathroom. It was not knowing how to respond to people when they asked how many children I have. It was wearing baggy clothes because not only was I acutely aware of how triggering my bump would be to other women struggling with infertility and loss, I realized that it was triggering for me too – my own bump. Every milestone I made with my daughter was a reminder of the milestones I didn’t get to have with my other babies. It’s hard to describe the guilt of that. My daughter is so loved and wanted, but she could not have existed if my other babies hadn’t died. And I often struggle with mourning them and celebrating her at the same time. And that’s when I realized the feeling that was most overwhelming during this pregnancy was grief.

There is no healthy pregnancy or baby that will ever be able to fully heal a miscarriage. I’m coming to terms with that, and I’ve grown exponentially through processing everything that has happened. I’ve become great at setting boundaries with people and topics, I’ve become more compassionate with those within the loss and infertility community, and I’ve accepted that I’ll never get my innocence back.

Was it worth it to bring my daughter into this world? Absolutely yes.
Am I still broken having done so? Also yes, but I’m working on it.

Standard
Pregnancy After Loss

Pregnancy After Loss: Megan

Back in July, we thought we’d be bringing home a baby in March. And then in September, We thought we’d be bringing home a baby in June. And then in November, we didn’t dare to think of the end result. We just were thankful everyday that I woke up still pregnant, still with a baby inside of me. 

We are so lucky to say that we are looking forward to bringing home a baby in August as we near the halfway mark of this pregnancy.  

March was the month I first expected I would be becoming a mom, and it also happens to be Pregnancy After Loss Awareness Month. To everyone pregnant after loss, I am sending you so much love and strength. I know how quickly emotions can go from hope to fear to anxiety to happiness and back again. I know the only thing scarier than trying again is never becoming a mom. So you choose to try. To those still struggling with infertility or recurrent losses I am so sorry and I hope you get your miracle soon.

To this little one, I cannot wait to be your mom. Through all of the ups and downs of the last year, I find peace in knowing I was supposed to meet this particular little baby. You are already incredible. See you in August.  

Standard
Pregnancy After Loss

Pregnancy After Loss: Brooke

My husband and I were ecstatic when we found out that we were expecting our second child in July of 2021. We were excited to be expanding our family and for our older son to have a sibling. Just a few months later, we lost our precious baby girl at 17 weeks gestation. We deeply mourned the loss of our baby, Jedah, and talked about how our desire for more children hadn’t changed.

Just 3 months later we found out we were pregnant again. I was flooded with fear and worry immediately. Would this pregnancy be like the last? I felt like every doctors appointment would be the one where we would be told that our baby no longer had a heartbeat. I felt a panic every time I laid on the table to hear our baby’s heartbeat. But, time and time again, we heard that strong thump thump of a heart beat and saw our baby’s perfectly formed body. I began to feel God’s overwhelming peace and comfort. I reminded myself over and over that this is a different baby, this is a different pregnancy. I now hold our sweet 4 month old son in my arms.

We will always miss our baby girl and continue to honor her through our lives everyday. Our rainbow baby, Jensen, is a perfect addition to our family. I am gently reminded how precious life is every time I see him smile or pass a new milestone. A rainbow baby is not a replacement, but a miraculous addition.

Standard
Pregnancy After Loss

Pregnancy After Loss: Kristin

Pregnancy after loss for me was the hardest thing to go through.  It is a mix of happy, sad, fear and a lot of anxiety.   Not to mention how people magically think pregnancy after loss is the cure all for your previous loss.   I don’t think anyone can understands this mindset unless you have been through it. 

I have had multiple losses at different stages, including chemical, missed miscarriages and a second trimester loss. From the first pregnancy test to delivery, during PAL, there is no safe anything anymore. No safe space, no safe time frame, no safe ultrasound, no safe bathroom wipe, no safe cramping, no safe doctor appointment.  You are constantly waiting for the bad news to hit. You are waiting for your body to fail again. Those feelings do not stop. They are a constant battle in your mind.    

Luckily my doctor read, understood my chart and losses, especially my second trimester loss from the first appointment. They took the time to talk to me about my losses and how they can help get through PAL.   They brought up triggers that would happen before I even mentioned it. They set up ultrasound every other week up to my loss week to set my mind at ease.  They also had me do cervical length checks up to 30 weeks.  During one of those length checks, they discovered I was having contractions and was put on pelvic rest. 

It’s true – PAL is holding your breath for nine months but PAL is also so much more that no one sees.  
Happy – yes, you can have happiness and joy during this time.  You can enjoy the milestones of this pregnancy. 
Sad – yes, you can be sad because this baby is missing a sibling, you missed these moments with your baby that passed, you missed the milestones. 
Fear – yes, it was fearful.  Every time you go to the bathroom and look at the toilet paper, searching for pink or red on it.   You almost want to hold it and not go to the bathroom because you are so fearful of what you will find.  Fear – this pregnancy won’t last.  Fear – when is the bad news coming.  Fear – to buy anything during this pregnancy because you might not use it.  Fear – since this pregnancy might not last – you wait and decorate when the baby comes home.  Fear to announce a pregnancy that you might have to take back.
Anxiety – yes, especially during ultrasounds and dopplers.  You hold your breath waiting for the tech to not find a heartbeat or lack of movement. 
Anger – yes, especially towards the ones who feel this pregnancy cancels all the pain and love you have for your baby who passed.  How magically this fixes and heals everything.  All those times they told you “everything happens for a reason” or “it wasn’t the right baby” or “something just wasn’t right with this baby and your body knew it what it had to do”  PAL is supposed to erase all of that. 
Hard – its down right hard and draining with all these emotions going on 24/7.

No one tells you about the triggers like your baby’s birthday, due date, death date while PAL. Nothing prepares you for the “is this your first?” or “how many kids do you have?” All still triggering for me. No one talks about the emotions you partner feels during PAL. 

All of these things, no one tells you about in PAL. PAL is not easy even though the world tries to paint this picture that this is all sunshine and rainbows. My story is helping change that and give the world a real life view of what nine months of PAL is really like. 

Standard
Our Story, Pregnancy After Loss

Our Pregnancy After Loss

I never thought to write this story.

As soon as I had a second to process my miscarriage, I wrote down every detail. I didn’t want to forget the baby the world never got to meet. I wanted them to know he was here, even if it was just for a few weeks.

When I got pregnant with my living daughter, everything looked different. The way I shared with others, the way I monitored my body, the way I checked food labels, the way I held my breath every time I went to the restroom. When you are pregnant after you lose a child, you also lose your innocence.

I often encourage women and families to share their stories about their pregnancy loss experiences. These stories help others to know they’re not alone and that their babies matter. But what about pregnancy after loss stories? When I was pregnant after my miscarriage, I looked for signs constantly that this baby was safe. I felt manic, constantly assessing how I felt and wondering if today would be the day that I lose this one too – every day, for nine months.

My hope for whoever decides to read this is that you take parts of my story and know that the feelings you’re feeling are allowed. There is an AND that comes with pregnancy after loss.

Being sad for the baby you miss AND happy for the one in your belly.

Worrying about what could happen AND being excited about what’s to come.

Choosing not to buy anything AND creating a secret Pinterest board to design their nursery.

Honoring your baby AND honoring yourself in this next pregnancy.

——-

The morning of June 11, 2020, it was that time again.

I grabbed a disposable cup, my phone with the timer app opened and that dreaded box of pregnancy tests.

I sat with my husband curled up on the bathroom floor as we waited. I felt like I was going to puke; from nerves and from my newfound unexplained nausea that lasted from the morning until 4 PM…

It was positive. About 7 months to the day where I saw my first positive test.

My second positive test. My second pregnancy.

Here we go again.

—-

When you’re pregnant after a loss of any kind, you envision what you’ll do differently the next time. Not that what you do affects the outcome, but you simply know more than you did before. I chose to advocate for myself more.

I called my doctor’s office immediately after the test and requested an appointment and ultrasound. I also requested blood work at their earliest convenience. I wanted a full panel and then to check in again a few days later, to ensure my levels were increasing; a staple for a loss parent.

We were moving in a month, but this meant I had to return to the doctor’s office that royally mishandled my miscarriage for one month before we moved across the state. “I can do anything for 30 days,” I thought. Then I would never have to set foot in their offices again.

It was no surprise my request to have recurrent blood draws in order to check rising hCG was denied. This was to be expected from them. They didn’t take care of my baby the first time around, why give me the peace of mind now? I settled for a blood draw and early ultrasound and also set up another ultrasound an appointment with my new doctor where we were moving. This way, I would get a blood draw at 5 weeks, ultrasound around 7 and another one at 9 with my new doctor.

Early on, every time my symptoms ebbed, even for a moment, I was convinced this was it. Instead of enjoying the moment of relief, I told myself to batten down the hatches for another loss. Truly a roller coaster when you’re in fight of flight for 12 weeks.

—-

Going into my first ultrasound, in a pandemic, after loss…needless to say I had to go alone and it wasn’t fun.

P drove me and sat in the parking lot. I checked in and prayed so hard between feelings of wanting to puke (from my fancy *afternoon* sickness and also, nerves). I entered the room alone, the same room where I had been told there was no heartbeat and no baby almost 6 months earlier.

I remember seeing the baby and hearing the heartbeat. This already looked and sounded different than the first time. I just felt it. They printed the first of many pictures of my baby and I speed-walked out to the car to show P.

—-

We told our parents the day we found out we were pregnant. With all the changes we were about to make with relocating closer to them, we basically had to. Between my appointments, living with my in laws upon our move and having to paint almost every room in our new house (paint fumes = not kosher for preggos), we needed to tell them earlier, and honestly I’m glad we did. To have some support during this scary time (for so many reasons) meant the world.

Telling people was weird. Some people reacted the exact same way they did when we told them about Anthony; excited, screaming, jumping up and down. Others hit us with the hesitation, “oh. Okay then! Congrats…???!” I can’t blame them. I want to believe in my heart they were trying to be strong for us or themselves, I’m not sure which. But I’m not gonna lie – it hurt. I didn’t take any videos of telling people this time as I had with Anthony’s pregnancy…I guess I’m not sure I believed it either.

—-

I handled our second ultrasound alone as well. While the first one definitely sent me reeling, this one felt some symbolic and more of a milestone – 9 weeks was when I bled with my first pregnancy. To me, this was the threshold for which my body could maintain a pregnancy. Everything was fine until the expiration date of 9 weeks and 6 days.

Much to my surprise, my new doctor entered the room with a calm and respectful demeanor. I shared my worry about being pregnant after loss to which she said “oh, well let’s not make you wait any longer then” and proceeded to set up the ultrasound equipment before moving on with the rest of the appointment. Compassion. What a concept.

And there she was again. My little baby…dancing.

Yep, you read that right. She was dancing. She would not stop moving. I giggled at her tiny moves and teared up. I think the doctor proceeded to ask me questions or make comments about how good the baby looked that warranted a response but I was speechless. Grateful is an understatement.

But that relief only goes so far.

Between every ultrasound, it would come in waves. The high from seeing the baby and confirming everything was okay, to the next few days riding the high down, down, down until I convinced myself it was all too good to be true. Doubting I actually felt sick or wondering if I didn’t feel movement yet because she stopped moving and I was just too inexperienced to notice. What kind of mother was I?

This was the self-talk going through my head for 18 weeks. Not the most healthy, and also, not true at all. My awareness can ironically be attributed to the fact that I was noticing these changes and was, in fact, had more self-awareness of my mind and body than I ever had before.

——

My pregnancy didn’t feel real until the day of my anatomy scan.

We walked into the scan in the busy medical building. P was excited and ready to see this baby again as he had with my NT scan. I was excited…and also so nervous I could puke.

It was that weird time no one tells you about. During your first trimester, you know everything’s okay because you’re sick. Third trimester, you feel kicks. Beginning of your second trimester? Good freakin’ luck, your guess is as good as mine.

I didn’t want to use a doppler for two reasons: user error and worst case scenario. The last thing I needed was to misuse a piece of equipment meant for a medical professional and find myself in a panic in the ER twice a week. Also, if there wasn’t a heartbeat…at home on my couch without someone to give me answers isn’t where I would want to be in that moment.

All this to say, I was still waiting to feel kicks. I had felt tiny little turns here and there the weeks prior but wasn’t sure if that was it (it was). I didn’t know if she was okay and I hoped and prayed she was.

This was also the scan where we would find out the gender. I wanted them to tell us right away and, much to my dismay, my husband felt differently. Surprisingly, he wanted to do a big gender reveal. I purchased a plastic basketball to be stuffed with gender specific confetti that he would dunk and explode. This all felt very anti-feminist to me – the phrases “gender is a construct!” and “we will love this baby no matter what, so what’s the point?!” echoed through my head. He laughed and asked me to humor him, so I did. We invited our families over for a party the day after our scan.

During the scan, the ultrasound tech was very kind and again, didn’t waste time finding the baby. There she was, dancing again. Except this time, she was huge! The anatomy scan wasn’t what I expected either. Getting to watch your baby move in your belly for a straight 20-30 minutes…a loss mom’s dream.

The ultrasound tech shared that she was going to take pictures of the reproductive areas next so if we didn’t want to know, we needed to close our eyes. My husband obliged and, as much as I hate to say it, I kept mine open. I thought maybe if I just so happened to see it, he couldn’t be mad, right? I mean I waited nearly a year for this…well, truthfully, my whole life.

“No seriously,” the ultrasound tech laughed, “I’m doing it now.” I closed my eyes too. Dang lady, way to call me out.

After the appointment, we made a quick trip to Target for the party the next day. I suddenly felt very invested, very curious. My incessant fear for this pregnancy was absent as we picked out some plates and napkins and a quick “baby” banner as we shopped. What was this feeling? Trust? Excitement? Whatever it was, it felt kind of good.

We got home and P went upstairs to do the bills. Again, this feeling took over. I grabbed the sealed envelope they sent us home with and held it up to the light. I quickly saw what looked like a “y” shape and threw the envelope down. That was it then, right? Did I see that or make it up? A boy?! A boy! I smiled and walked over to the new 3D ultrasound hanging on the fridge.

A boy.

His little face.

…his dad’s face.

There have been very few moments in my life when I have truly screamed out loud.

I let out a noise that I didn’t even know I was holding in. A cry? A yelp?

And out came the fear I had been carrying for 18 weeks. For 9 months since I lost my son.

This was real. And this baby was mine.

___

My shock continued when P dunked the basketball and pink confetti exploded all over the concrete.

A girl?!

A girl.

The “y” I thought I saw was a drawing of two baby feet. That’s what I get for being nosy.

I never thought I would have a girl – my husband’s family is full of boys and I only have one sister along with two brothers. The odds were not there. But this baby liked to prove everyone wrong already, huh?

My baby girl.

It was finally real.

___

Throughout my second pregnancy, I told myself an incredibly irrational narrative. That every time I had an ultrasound, it wasn’t actually my baby safe and healthy in there, they just uploaded a recording from someone else’s pregnancy and at some point toward the end when I started to feel comfortable, the doctor would throw the ultrasound wand and yell “gotcha!” and it would all be a big joke. The tech would laugh and throw off her gloves and turn off the machine. I would lay there, holding my belly thinking “I guess that makes sense. Why would I have ever been so lucky?” These are the lies we tell ourselves to survive this journey, the intrusive thoughts we endure. I know how ridiculous this sounds, but I felt it to my core every single time I had an appointment. Why not me?

___

For the rest of my pregnancy, I had days of calm and excitement and days of deep fear and denial. The weeks leading up to the birth of my daughter were filled with so much anxiety.

We set up her crib, and I texted my friends with instructions of where to hide it in our house if something went wrong.

I washed her clothes and tried not to get used to the smell.

We installed her car seat and I hoped she would get to use it.

All of these things and more, loss parents don’t take for granted.

___

Shortly before I went into labor, my group of friends asked how I was doing. I wrote this response and saved it:

“It’s like my entire life is about to change and I can see these beautiful moments happening and I can almost feel how it will feel to hold her and it makes me want to burst but then I think of how difficult it will be and how I know myself and how hard I will be on myself to take care of her and I want to protect myself and her from those hard scary moments. And then I worry about my marriage. And COVID. And how all the classes I took are fantastic but also seem like a lot of info to live up to. 

I also think about the honor it will be to just have her here and ALIVE and to be able to get in the car, put her in the car seat and take her home. That is such a privilege and something we never got to do with Anthony. And it still scares me that it won’t happen. But I can feel that it will? It’s very bizarre.

I also have this deep sense of connection to her already. I had a dream she was infused into my bones (weird, I know) and that is the best way to describe how I feel. She is a part of me. And she understands me. Sometimes I’ll think “she hasn’t kicked a lot recently” and she’ll move. This feeling is terrifying and the most beautiful thing.”

___

My water broke 5 hours after Super Bowl LV. I was shocked by the amount of peace and I power I felt as my husband rushed around me, packing last minute things. I contracted and almost smiled through it. It was almost time to meet her.

My labor was (thankfully) relatively uneventful. While I was pushing (for 2.5 hours) one of the midwives said “I see some hair!” I asked what color it was and they said it looked brown. I started sobbing because I knew she was almost here. I was so ready. A few pushes later the midwife changed her mind; “oh, actually maybe it’s blonde! It looks lighter now!” Cue the sobs again. All these months, years of waiting were coming to an end. 

At 3:58 PM on Monday February 8, 2021, I finally got to hold my baby.

Even 2 years later, I look at her in amazement that she’s here. One day, she’ll know how much I longed for her to be here. One day, she’ll understand why we pray for her brother every night. And one day she’ll understand why my love for her runs deeper than any love I’ve ever known in my life; she was and still is, my biggest dream come true.

Standard
Pregnancy After Loss, Uncategorized

Pregnancy After Loss: Vitoria

I didn’t know if I would ever be ready to talk about it.

I don’t think people talk about this enough, it’s such a lonely pain and I wish I knew more about it before it actually happened to me, like it happens to so many other women.

A loss so painful that it left me speechless.

It’s very difficult to lose something you didn’t have, to lose a dream that had just begun, that you were going to hold your baby in your arms, smell it, put it to sleep, wake up tired at dawn, being hard or not, in 9 months I would have had the chance to feel the strength of being a mother and celebrate it for the rest of my life.

Nobody prepares us for this loss, there is no book, video or advice that prepares you to go through one of the most difficult moments of your life.

It’s not easy to share this pain, and it’s more common than you might think, 1 in 4 women go through what I’m going through. And how should I feel? What can I do with the guilt? Was this my fault? Even knowing I didn’t do anything wrong, that it was completely out of my control, how do I deal with the emptiness of a little piece of life that was taken from me?

I don’t have answers, I still can’t understand why, but I know that everything happens for a reason, our pain makes us stronger.
And the fear of trying again, the fear of allowing myself to hope, I don’t know if it will pass, but I hope I can give myself the chance to feel the joy of being a mother, once again.

Then this year started and people always say there’s always a rainbow after the storm, and as I write this I can feel my rainbow baby growing inside me. The anxiety wants to win, the doubts crippling in, but I will remain strong for me and for my little peanut!

It’s not an easy journey to be going through pregnancy again, without knowing the outcome, with all the fears of what can happen.

But I do believe, and I do have hope.

We will grow together and I am a mother, once again.

Standard
Pregnancy After Loss

Life After Pregnancy Loss: Jessica

Jessica shared the story of the loss of her daughter Emily back in August. Here, she details what life has been like after her miscarriage.

—

Once we got the miscarriage diagnosis , I learned life doesn’t stop moving – even for the death of your sweet baby. I still went to work and told coworkers (who had no idea I was pregnant- let alone had a miscarriage). There were moments of sadness to be sure but life keep going so you wipe away the tears and tackle the next project on the list.

We visited my sister in Atlanta in March shortly after, which was healing. Once of her roommates was pregnant and the room that my husband and I stayed In had all the baby stuff. It didn’t bother me as much as everyone thought it did because I was literally 8 weeks pregnant when I had my miscarriage – we hadn’t bought anything so that was just interesting to see people trying to care for me in that way.

Mother’s Day was hard. We skipped our normal family gathering, skipped church, grabbed coffee and walked a park on a very cold Mother’s Day. It looked like winter was dying but spring hasn’t made her appearance yet (Minnesota weather). It was kind of beautiful to see nature hadn’t turned quite yet and I didn’t need to be fully healed in that moment either.

The summer went along as normal and then September hit.

As soon as September came, my anxiety came back online because I was supposed to give birth this month. Instead, my body had no baby in it.

My husband and I started trying again in the summer. I had been tracking my cycle which hadn’t been consistent since the miscarriage. Suddenly, I was late – I got up the morning my period should have began and no blood to be found. I grabbed a pregnancy test from under the sink and said “I’ll take one and hopefully it negative so I can get on my with my day.”
I took it and saw that it was positive. After freaking out for a couple minutes in the bathroom I quickly told my husband the news. We prayed immediately and made a plan.

I called the doctor on my lunch break and begged them to check my levels to confirm the pregnancy. They agreed to do one test on Friday and one test on Monday (in order to be pregnant your levels needed to double between the two dates) the Friday test didn’t scare me – Monday did. If it rose I was pregnant – if it dropped or stayed the same, something was wrong. This is what ultimately determined my miscarriage. To say that weekend I was scared was understatement. I was freaked out and literally had no control over it. I went in Monday, got the blood work and went on my day.

My results on Friday were 350. In order to be pregnant, I needed at least 700. Monday results were 1300. When I got the email I was driving and called my husband. We knew then this pregnancy would be different. We wouldn’t wait the 12 weeks to tell people – we wanted the support early – the support that got us through the miscarriage back in February.

We told close friends and family, it felt there was an army now actively praying for this little one.

We made it past some scary milestones, past the 6 week mark when we lost our precious Emily back in February.

We made it past the first ultrasound sound at 9 weeks where we saw the body and heartbeat where I cried because it suddenly was real. There was a baby in me.

We made it to 12 weeks, into second trimester for the first time.

We made it to 20 weeks, we found out is it a girl (just like we wanted) and she let us knows she is alive by moving and refusing to let me sleep.

We just made it to 24 weeks. If you are in the baby loss community, you know this is viability week. Our little girl could survive on the outside (though I would really prefer if you stayed inside. Also I literally have nothing for you – please stay put baby girl – just until May).

Pregnancy after loss makes me sad that I should have a child here already. But then there are moments with this new little one that remind me that I’m blessed. I blessed to carry a child, to be her home and her safe spot for now. I’m glad that’s what I was for my pregnancy and I’m super glad that’s what I am for this new little one. I pray for everyone who lives with pregnancy loss because it something I don’t wish on anyone.

To my new little one that is moving and making it very hard to sleep – thank you. Thank you for your strong heartbeat, all your movements, all the times you have made me throw up. Thank you for being an awesome gift from your big sister. I can’t wait until May to meet you face to face and tell you all about your big sister in Heaven.

Standard