One in four hits closer to home than you realize
Don’t know someone who’s had a miscarraige? Chances are you do and you just don’t know it. I’ll reveal one person you didn’t know about right here… me. On Valentine’s Day 2020, on what is supposed to be a day of love, I found out that the seven week old baby that I so desperately wanted didn’t have a heartbeat. In that moment, I went from a mother who hadn’t experienced loss, to one that had. I was naive to this pain before. We conceived my first on the first try and became pregnant for the second time easily as well. I will never get back to that innocence again. I hope you’re comfortable, because this isn’t the abridged version of my story.
I found out that I was pregnant very early, due to my own eagerness to test. I fully embraced the pregnancy right away, already looking at maternity clothes and telling my daughter there was a baby in mommy’s tummy. I felt some nausea and other early pregnancy symptoms, but then they died down. Around that time, I felt some pressure in the lower right side of my stomach. It lasted all evening. I wouldn’t describe it as a pain or anything urgent, but the next morning I decided to call my doctor about it. The feeling had passed by the time I called and I was relieved to find out that they wanted me to come in for an ultrasound. My original scan was for a week and a half later, which felt like eons away from someone who was already anxious to learn that everything was okay sooner. I was even excited to find out that this would happen on Valentine’s day. I thought it would make the day extra special. The day before, I met up with some friends and their children at Chick-Fil-A to exchange Valentine’s. Though I was early, I was eager to tell them that I was pregnant. They were all thrilled for me and began asking questions and making plans just as freely as I had. The next day was a busy one for me. In addition to the ultrasound, I was going to my MOPs meeting, where the kids would again exchange Valentines. I had worked hard to get all the Valentines just right for my daughter’s first one she was truly able to participate in. I also signed up to bring food for that meeting. The plan was to meet my mom at the doctor’s office to have the ultrasound, then rush off to my meeting.
Looking back, I should have known something was wrong when the ultrasound technician was silent instead of explaining what we were seeing. I should have heard the thump, thump, thump of the heartbeat, but I didn’t. I wasn’t even suspicious when the technician asked me to try a vaginal ultrasound instead of the typical stomach one. I knew I was early and had expected that they may need to use that method. Finally, she uttered the words that no mother should ever have to hear, “I’m sorry, but there is no heartbeat.”
She went on to explain how far along I was and point out more signs that the baby inside of me was showing no signs of viability, but honestly I wasn’t fully comprehending her anymore. My heart was already breaking. All of those plans I had for a September baby, the one that would be just over three years younger than my first, the one I’d have in my arms by now, weren’t going to happen. Tears welled up in both mine and my mom’s eyes as we waited for that painful ultrasound to be over. At the time I was disappointed that my husband wasn’t able to attend this impromptu ultrasound, but at that moment I was grateful to have my mom there with me. Because only a mom can understand that pain. Only a mom sees a lifetime of memories ahead the moment they learn about a pregnancy. I’ve heard it said that a mom becomes a mother when she sees a positive pregnancy test. A dad becomes a father when he sees the baby. My mom understood the pain I was enduring in a way that my husband wouldn’t have been able to.
After that, we were put in a room to wait for a consultation with my doctor. I was grateful for the thirty or forty minutes it took for her to rearrange her schedule to find time to meet with me. It gave me time to cry and take in the magnitude of the news I just heard. I didn’t text my husband to tell him the news. At one point, he had told me that he didn’t want to hear big news while he was at work. That stuck with me, so I left him oblivious. I did text my good friend who was going to be at the MOPs meeting, purely out of necessity. I couldn’t utter the full news yet but I managed to tell her that the ultrasound hadn’t gone well and I wouldn’t be there that day. She kindly sent her love, didn’t pry, and said she would make up an excuse of why I wasn’t there that day. A different person might have held hope that a doctor’s opinion or a second ultrasound would bring better news, but that wasn’t me. I began to grieve my loss right away.
I passed off my phone to distract my innocent toddler. I uttered words like I’m so glad I already have Marissa and shared how much I was hurting to my mother. By the time the doctor came, one I had only seen a couple times before, my tears had stopped and I was able to compose myself. She was equally compassionate and comforting as she explained that there was almost no possibility that this baby would survive. I would have another ultrasound at that original planned date, ten days in the future to confirm this. She told me that I should have no problems conceiving again in the future, pointing to my daughter as proof. The most grave news was when she explained my options going further. I could wait to miscarry naturally, take a pill to speed up the process, or have a surgical procedure called a D&C. The first two options still might end in a D&C if everything still hadn’t passed. I instinctively knew that I wanted the D&C right away. Waiting felt like the process would be dragged out even further and the medicine sounded like a bad in-between option. I wouldn’t recommend it for everyone, but in fact I wouldn’t recommend anything for a woman in this position. I’d tell them to listen to their instincts and do what they felt was right. I shared that I was leaning towards the D&C with my doctor. She also told me what I might experience if my miscarraige happened on its own and told me what was normal and what wasn’t. She gave me a hug and soon we were leaving the office.
I decided to send my daughter with my mom, giving me time to process the news on my own. I remained relatively composed during this time as I drove myself home. Once all of my obligations were taken care of, though, I allowed myself to fall apart. I cried, I slept, I watched tv, I grieved. Those hours were sort of a blur. At some point, I called my husband and told him the news. I was grateful to tell him over the phone, so he would know what he was walking into when he got home, instead of asking for the good news. My mom brought my daughter back along with lunch for me. I was a total wreck by that point. My husband finally got home, late that evening. It felt like it had been so long between when I heard the news and he got home. I felt like an entirely different person. I ran through all of the news with him again and my thoughts about wanting the D&C. Then he held me as he processed the news himself.
I was a complete mess in the days that followed, alternating between utter despair and anger. I was in limbo during this time. Still somewhat pregnant, yet also not. With every pain or off feeling, I wondered whether my miscarraige was starting. I kept pads with me and stayed close to home in case that it did.
About a week after I got the news, my daughter woke right as we were going to sleep. I was already tired and dreading the task of getting her back to bed. Only, when I went to her, I didn’t find an ornery toddler as I expected. Marissa was burning up and completely out of it. We checked her temperature and were astounded when the numbers soared to 104 degrees. My husband and I tried sitting her up and keeping her awake long enough to have some Tylenol and drink some water. We took off her nightgown and cooled her off with a washcloth. I planned to sleep next to her. After Googling symptoms, I was pretty certain she had the flu. I made an appointment for first thing the next morning at the Children’s Urgent Care and finally fell asleep. I got a lousy night of sleep and woke up to my alarm too soon. Sure enough, a flu test confirmed that she had type A flu. Her temperature was back to 104 at the doctor and they urgently gave her Motrin to get it down. I opted for Tamiflu in order to hopefully miss the worst of the flu symptoms. It wasn’t so bad for me or for my daughter either. We just had a few days of relaxing and meds ahead of us. My husband didn’t take the Tamiflu and had a much worse case. So in addition to dealing with my grief, mine and my daughter’s sickness, I had to help my husband recover as well. It was easily the hardest week of my life.
I was eager to be in the community of my mom friends, yet the flu kept us quarantined. I’m not sure whether I called my doctor or they called me, but at some point I talked with them and scheduled my D&C. It was on the day I was originally scheduled to have my ultrasound. Dustin already had that day off so I wanted to have the ultrasound, confirming the inevitable, and the surgery the same day so he would be able to be with me. The night before I had to fast after midnight and have nothing, not even water the next morning. I’m not sure whether that second ultrasound was worse than the first or not. I had very little false hope and knew what to expect, but the silence of not hearing a heartbeat was much harder the second time around. It’s wrong of me to say, but I’m glad that Dustin was able to experience some of that pain with me. I spoke briefly with my doctor afterwards and she said she would see me in a few hours for my surgery.
Though I was over the flu by this point, I was still miserably congested. Fasting until noon was difficult, but not having any water was much harder. The surgery was pretty no-nonsense. It didn’t feel like I was losing my baby; it just felt like a surgical procedure. I didn’t even get the amusement of saying funny things after my anesthesia wore off. Dustin spoke to my doctor while I was in recovery and she assured him that everything went fine. After I peed, we were allowed to go home. I was eager to do two things: eat and sleep, so I did both in that order. Other than feeling tired and a little sore, I felt no negative effects from the surgery. I bled some, but it was less than an average period and ended quickly. When I saw my doctor at my follow-up appointment, I thanked her for being upfront with me from the beginning. Due to that, I was able to almost complete the grieving process by the time of my surgery. I’ve heard of other doctors sugar-coating things or providing false hope, which only made things worse. She told me that I was bleeding more than expected in surgery so they did an ultrasound in the operating room. Because of that, she was positive that everything had passed and I wasn’t subjected to experiencing another ultrasound firsthand. My doctor also told me that I could start trying to conceive again as soon as I was ready, which was a relief. At the height of my grief, I remember complaining to my mom that it would take so long before I was pregnant again. Now, the past was officially behind me and I could begin to move forward.
Though those few weeks in February following my miscarrage were awful, they were also short-lived. I’m happy to report that I didn’t re-enter depression following this horrific ordeal. I told myself to feel everything. To write about it, talk about it, cry about it, to do whatever I wanted to do in that moment. I needed to be selfish and truly feel the effects of what happened in the short term so that I could get past it in the long-term.
There were a few weeks of normalcy in March, where I was able to start drinking again, go out on the town with my friends, and start trying for another baby. That was until the COVID chaos began in mid-March. Even that climate of uncertainty didn’t curb my immense desire to be pregnant again. I was grateful for that short period of time where I was able to feel like myself again and not be pregnant, but I wanted a baby more than anything. While others were sick of their children in quarantine, I wanted more of them. I wanted a baby to cuddle and a sibling for my daughter.
Luckily, after only having one normal period, I became pregnant again in April. It was bitter-sweet that time around. I was so happy to be pregnant, yet afraid to get attached too quickly. I tried not to talk about it much and held off on telling my daughter for a couple weeks. My doctor allowed me to get early blood testing this time around for added assurance that things were doing fine. My beta numbers more than doubled in the 48-hour period and I began having the usual pregnancy symptoms. I was disappointed when I found out that the due date would be at the beginning of January. I’m a meticulous planner and worried that I failed this child by giving them a ‘crappy’ birthday. I was so focused on getting pregnant again that I forgot to plan when I would give birth. Those feelings were overshadowed by relief. It felt like all was right in the world because I was supposed to be pregnant and now I was.
On Mother’s Day, we told my parents and I began to embrace this pregnancy. For those who knew I was pregnant before, they reacted differently this time. It felt like they were less enthusiastic, yet also happier for me. Maybe there was a little hesitation mixed in. Like they didn’t want to get too attached to this pregnancy, either. My anxiety reached sky-high levels at my first ultrasound for this pregnancy. I wouldn’t be able to have anyone in the room with me, due to covid restrictions, and everyone was required to wear masks. It was hard enough to breathe normally when you’re so nervous, but my mask made it even more difficult. I waited anxiously in those first few moments of the scan. Waiting to be reassured that my nightmare wouldn’t happen again. Finally, my relief came and the technician told me everything was fine and I was able to hear the heartbeat.
Since then, my pregnancy has passed with relative normalcy. In part due to my miscarrage and how hard pregnancy is while also parenting another child, I became sure that this would be my last pregnancy. I sold my daughter’s clothes and prepared for my son. In September, I felt that urgent nesting that’s common in the weeks before delivery. It felt like my son should be here, even though he wasn’t due for four months.I was able to put my grief on the back-burner until around the time of my previous pregnancy’s due date. I wasn’t even consciously aware of the date. Somehow my body knew what was happening more than my mind did. I felt intense Braxton-Hicks contractions, followed by a cloud of depression. It was only then that I went back to calculate the dates and sure enough this was all around the time I would have delivered. I didn’t want to linger in those feelings and was thankful when they passed.
In all likelihood, when I deliver this sweet baby boy, only Dustin will be allowed to be in the hospital with me. If he leaves, no one else will be allowed to visit. Those visions of my daughter meeting her new baby brother in the hospital probably won’t happen. Instead of being sad about what won’t happen, I’m actually looking forward to my low-key, no visitor birth. My miscarrage has made me all the more grateful for my daughter and will make me cherish my son even more. I’ll get those days in the hospital with just my husband and I to bond with our baby. I won’t have to pass him around to visitors or worry about entertaining. I won’t have to share him with the world; he’ll be all mine. This time, my last time, I’ll remember to treasure every one of those first moments. I still have 11 weeks to go, but I’m already counting down until that day.
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