June 12, 2018. The day I found out I was pregnant. I dreamed about this moment my whole life. How I would react. How it would feel. The excitement of finally starting my own family. The reality of the situation was so far beyond what I imagined...
I have wanted children from as long as I can remember. There are dozens of pictures of me as a child surrounded by my dolls, all with their own unique names (some even with middle names!). There were 36 children in the dollhouse I had growing up. If there's a party and you can't find me, look for the babies; that's where I'll be. I adore children. And I never once imagined my future without having any. When I got divorced without children, I mourned the loss of the ones I'd never have, hoping I wouldn't be too old when I got married again to still have a family of my own. And when Ben and I began talking about children, we argued. He wasn't ready, I couldn't be more so. After a while, we decided to just "see what happens." We were not actively trying, but we were no longer preventing it, either. I was excited but realistic. It would probably take a while, and we'd be in a house and making more money by the time it happened.
I remember being extremely emotional the week I found out. I chalked it, and the sore breasts, up to PMS. I had been on the pill for so long that my cycle wasn't what it used to be and symptoms were different. A friend tried to tell me to take a pregnancy test, even though it wasn't late yet. "I'm definitely not. The timing isn't right, anyway." For, you see, I knew exactly when it would have happened, and it wasn't the right time. In fact, it had been our very first "try." But, finally, the day my period was due, I came home and told Ben, "I just want to let you know that I'm taking a test. I'm certain it will be negative, but just to ease my own mind, I'm going to take it." The next few minutes changed everything.
Ben was doing the dishes, and I came out of the bathroom shaking, holding the positive pregnancy test. "Ben...what does that say...?" The second line was a little too faint for me to believe. I even texted a friend to ask what he thought it said. He let me know, excitedly, that it said I was pregnant. The vibe in our home was not what I thought it would be. There was no celebrating. There was no jumping for joy. There were no tears of happiness, or hugging, or exciting talk about our future. Instead, we sat in silence. I apologized. We didn't speak. What the hell is going on?
I quickly ran out to get both dinner and some more pregnancy tests. Two more confirmed the news, and in the next few days I got it confirmed with the doctor too. I will admit, it took us quite a few weeks to get used to the news. We were scared. Could we do it? Could we handle it? Did we make enough? I cried a lot, terrified of the experience, not wanting to actually be pregnant, but wanting to have a baby so badly. I did not feel prepared at all. Our dads both cried. Our moms were less enthusiastic but still excited. My mom made the decision to retire at the end of the year to watch the baby, that was due in February, while we worked. We had our eight-week pre-natal appointment and they did an ultrasound, where we got to see our "bean." It still didn't seem real at that point. From there on, all of the appointments went well. There were no complications, no medical issues, nothing. At sixteen weeks, to the day, I got in a car accident on the way to work. The car was totaled and I was shaken, but a trip to the OB/GYN showed everything was okay. At 19 weeks, I went in for another check-up and some routine blood work. A few days later, the doctor called with news that the tests came back abnormal, showing a possibility for spina bifida or other neural abnormalities. She told me that nine times out of ten, it means nothing, but she was going to add a doctor consultation to our next ultrasound appointment, which was in two weeks. The wait was agony.
We showed up at the appointment the day before I reached 22 weeks, excited to find out if we were having a boy or a girl. We were hoping for a girl so badly that I was honestly worried we wouldn't be excited for a boy. During the ultrasound we got to see the baby's legs, counted fingers and toes, saw the face (baby stuck its tongue out at us!), etc. A vaginal ultrasound was required at one point, because the baby was not in the correct position to see what was necessary to clear all abnormalities. We got to see the brain, which looked fine, and the heart which looked 'okay,' but they were not able to get a reading on the spine, which was crucial. And, we finally got to hear...it's a girl. We were elated. Ben teared up at the idea of having his daddy's girl. There's the excitement we were missing.
The consultation afterwards left me feeling confused. I was diagnosed with a "leaky placenta" and protein in my urine. The baby was measuring more than two weeks smaller than she should have been (only 10 oz.). We were presented with three possible scenarios. One was that the baby had spina bifida (and it wasn't too late to have an abortion if that was the outcome and that's what we chose), but only an amniocentesis would completely rule it out. We decided against that, due to the risk of miscarriage and because we didn't feel it was necessary given other information. Another was that it was nothing and the baby would just be small. And honestly, at this stage, I forget the third scenario. And it doesn't matter, because that's not what it ended up being. I didn't have a lot of questions for the doctor, because there was a lot to process. We made an appointment to come back for another ultrasound in two weeks and a fetal echo a few weeks after that. I was being monitored for the rest of the pregnancy. This was on Monday.
On Tuesday morning, I emailed the doctor with follow-up questions. There is a history of pre-term labor in my family (my aunt lost a baby at 8 months, a cousin lost one at 6 months, and a great-aunt lost one at delivery). I asked about the chances of pre-term labor. I asked what I could or should be doing to protect myself and the baby. I asked what exactly a leaky placenta was and what it meant. I asked if the car accident could have caused any of this. The doctor answered me two days later, on Thursday. His answers were short and vague: A car accident wouldn't cause delayed fetal growth (no shit, but would it cause placental issues?); I "probably wouldn't" go into pre-term labor; there was nothing I could do except eat healthy. I asked what the worst case scenario was and he refused to tell me, instead telling me that the best case scenario was a healthy baby who was just small. I was not satisfied with any of those answers.
By the time I left work that Thursday, I was a nervous wreck. I called the OB/GYN as soon as I left and they called me back while I was driving home. I told them I wanted to come in and talk to someone because I had some questions that I didn't feel were being answered by the perinatologist. I was told on the phone that they agreed with the assessment from the doctor. When I asked if I could just come in for a quick ultrasound because I hadn't felt the baby move that day, the response was "no one's here tonight. I'm just answering phone calls. You can come in tomorrow morning." I hung up and burst into tears. Ben called in the middle of my hysterics. He had tried to maintain a positive attitude throughout all of it, telling me that the doctor hadn't said anything that was particularly alarming to him. But I just knew. I knew something wasn't right. I had only gained three or four pounds and, at 5 1/2 months, I was barely showing. Besides that, I'd had almost no pregnancy symptoms, other than a backache.
I went home and tried to calm myself down. I looked up some things in the pregnancy books I was given by the doctors and tried to convince myself that everything was normal. I took a bath to try to relax, the whole time talking to the baby, saying "I know we're going to spend the rest of your life telling you to sit down and shutup, but please do something. Move just a little. A tiny kick. A hiccup. Anything." I ate dinner and laid on my side, because those were the two things that usually got the baby to move. Still nothing. I remember telling Ben that I felt bloated and my stomach seemed bigger than usual. This was my first pregnancy, I knew absolutely nothing.
I went to bed that night, thinking and hoping things would be better in the morning. Maybe the baby was just sleeping. I hadn't been paying attention all day, and besides, the day before we were convinced she'd be a gymnast. Just calm down. I was asleep for less than an hour when I got out of bed, thinking I needed to use the bathroom. I quickly broke a sweat and sat on the toilet with a cold washcloth on my neck and forehead. And then, I laid down on the bathroom floor, with my head in the hallway, yelling Ben's name. He came running into the hallway, delirious with sleep, asking what was wrong. I was having severe abdominal pains, but I still wasn't convinced it was anything other than gas. I wanted to believe that's what it was, so I told him to hold off calling an ambulance yet. He kept asking, "what should I do? Should I call an ambulance? Should I take you to the hospital?" and I kept saying "I'll feel really stupid if I get there and it's just gas." And then...I threw up. Violently. And that's when I knew I needed to go in.
The ambulance arrived in minutes. I was still laying on the floor when the EMTs came into the apartment. They asked how far along I was and if there had been any bleeding. I told them no and they said, "good, that's good!" Once in the ambulance, they took my blood pressure and put an IV in. "Do you have a history of high blood pressure?" I was asked. "No, my blood pressure has always been perfect. Why? Is it high?" "It's pretty high right now." I don't know what made me ask, but I wanted to know, "pretty high? Or alarmingly high?" And the answer came: "Well, we don't like to use the word 'alarmingly'...'" I was remarkably calm. She told me about her one-year-old son. I asked if she'd had a complicated pregnancy, and she said no. She asked if we were excited and I said, "well, I was..." and she told me I still should be. But, I knew she was wrong.
Once at the hospital, I was taken to Labor & Delivery. I continued vomiting in the ambulance and in L&D. They couldn't figure out why. The doctor did a quick ultrasound and confirmed a heartbeat, but I wasn't buying it. I said, "but it's not moving!" and she said "yes it is! I'll show you in a minute." They then proceeded to give me a magnesium drip to lower my blood pressure and plasma to increase my platelets. I was "very sick," as they kept saying. And at some point, the doctor did another ultrasound, where she finally said, after a few minutes, "I'm sorry, but there's no heartbeat." I looked at Ben. His face was a mix of anguish and horror. I have never seen a look like that in my life and I never want to again. It haunts me still. I think my response was, "it's okay, we can try again." Because I knew. She wasn't telling me information I didn't know. I don't know why she claims she saw the heartbeat earlier (she said she thinks we were watching it happen, but I doubt it).
From there, a lot of things started to happen. I can't quite recall the exact sequence of events, but I remember discussing options for getting the baby out. We decided on the D&E procedure, which is essentially an abortion, but the baby is already gone. At the time, this decision seemed like the right one. It's a common procedure. Takes 20-30 minutes. I'd be in and out of the hospital in a few hours. But, first they needed to stabilize my vitals. They couldn't figure out why I was still vomiting, and they couldn't get a urine sample from me, because I wasn't able to provide one. They had to use a catheter to get one eventually. I was told at one point that if they didn't get my blood pressure stabilized I could go into a seizure. And then I was diagnosed with severe pre-eclampsia. The doctor came back in the room and told me that what she was seeing showed that the baby wouldn't have survived the week. WHY DIDN'T THE PERINATOLOGIST TELL US THIS?!?! I didn't have time to be angry or sad or anything else. At this point, I was just trying to figure out what was going on. I had finally had to ask for something for the pain, because I was, in fact, in labor. And while they began prepping me for the D&E, my water broke. I remember asking, "Is that blood?" and they said, "your water just broke. You may have to deliver." We discussed an epidural, but I had no idea if I'd need one. This baby was less than a pound. I hadn't done this before. Should I get one? What was going on? After a little while, they checked me again, and I wasn't dilating anymore, so we decided to go ahead with the procedure. We had been in L&D about 6 or 7 hours by this point. I hadn't been able to get ahold of my mom until nearly 8:00, so we were there all night before she knew anything.
Everything is a bit of a blur from there. I know I was coherent enough to ask questions about the IVs they were giving me and the tests they were running. I never got a read on my blood pressure, but I heard a whispered conversation about it being "high one-hundred over low one-hundred." Around 10:00am, I was wheeled out of L&D and brought to the OR. I remember being surrounded by doctors and nurses and Ben. I was still remarkably calm. I had remained calm the entire time (except for those few bouts of excruciating pain). And then, some old doctor who I hadn't met until that point began telling me what was going to happen during the procedure. For some reason, the idea of a breathing tube set me off, and I became hysterical. I said, loudly, "I thought the procedure was only 20 minutes!!" and he said it was, and that the tube would be out before I was awake. I'd never know it was in there. This did little to calm me, and I asked him to stop telling me what was going to be done and to just do it. He said okay. I looked at Ben during all of this, and he was a mess. Apparently me breaking down was too much for him and he broke down as well. It was an ugly scene. And the last thing I remember was him telling me that my mom and brother had just arrived and were in the waiting room. I don't remember being wheeled away. I don't remember saying good-bye to him. I don't remember going in the OR. My next memory is from hours later, hearing the nurse say "look who's here!" I opened my weary eyes and saw my mom, brother, and dad standing across from my bed. Ben was noticeably missing. I didn't know what time it was then, but it was hours and hours later. I want to say maybe 5 in the evening. My 20-minute procedure had not gone well. And the breathing tube was still in me...I couldn't talk. I was afraid to move. I could only nod yes or no to the questions I was being asked. I heard my mom ask if I had my contacts in and shook my head no. I heard my dad ask if I could hear him and I nodded my head yes. I don't remember what my brother said, but I remember smiling and him saying "I saw that!" And I was informed that Ben had gone home to shower and sleep.
It took a while for me to get all the pieces of the story. There is almost an entire day missing from my memory. When Ben finally came back, I used his phone to type messages to him because the tube was still in (for HOURS!!!). I was groggy but fully conscious and aware. I kept trying to ask the nurses what time it was by pointing to my wrist, and asking them for Ben by pointing to my ring finger, but the message wasn't always clear. It was frustrating. I was fully awake when the tube was taken out, and it was horrific. The respiratory doctor was awesome and so nice, so that made the experience as pleasant as possible, but it was not expected. However, I did end up being glad for that pesky old doctor who told me about it, because I would have freaked if I woke up with that in not knowing why.
I spent three days in the hospital. I was admitted around midnight on Friday, October 19th, and went home around 2 pm on Sunday, October 21st. Apparently when my family came into my hospital room after the procedure, they had no idea if I'd live. Besides the protein in the urine, the high blood pressure, the low platelets, and the vomiting, they had also discovered fluid in my lungs, and when they finished the procedure and took the breathing tube out, I didn't wake up. They were forced to put it back in and wait for me to come around. When my family asked if I'd be okay the doctors' response was "we don't know yet." I was listed as critical but stable. Still, we wait to find out what the hell happened to me that day. Why didn't I wake up? Why did I get so sick? Why didn't anyone notice the pre-eclampsia? Will this happen again?
I waited to grieve until I came home. I didn't want to be a hysterical mess in the hospital where so many people could see me. The first thing I did when I came home was throw away the pregnancy calendar my mom gave me when we told her I was expecting. Then, I gathered all the pregnancy books and baby name books we'd acquired and put them in the pack-n-play a friend had given us that we'd set up in the would-be-baby's bedroom and closed the door. I threw the ultrasound pictures in there with them. And then I cried. Hard. So hard, that when Ben's parents stopped by later that day to drop off food, I could barely see, my eyes were so swollen.
I don't recall Ben ever crying, but I think he was too relieved to see me alive to mourn for too long. He almost lost his baby and his wife that day. And since then, my own emotions have been all over the place. There are emotional triggers you wouldn't normally notice. For example, did you know that they hang baby bibs in random aisles at the grocery store? And if you go to the King of Prussia Mall, there is a giant poster for my medical team and their maternity ward hanging right in the middle of everything. And then, the owner of my company adopted a baby (my first thought was, now people are just giving babies away, and I don't get to have mine). They're everywhere. And some days, I'm stronger than others. Some days, some things still feel too soon. But, let me say this about the guilt. I never really understood that, because I assume that most people know it's not your fault when you lose a baby. Unless you actively try to miscarry, there's very little that can be blamed on the mother. So, emotionally, I knew this wasn't my fault. I knew there was nothing I could have done. I even knew that if the pre-eclampsia had been caught sooner, we likely still would have lost the baby. But, where the guilt kicked in was for other people. Because, we all lost something. Not only did Ben and I lose a child, but our parents lost a grandchild. Our siblings lost a niece. I kept thinking of my mom retiring to watch the baby and now she wouldn't be doing that. I kept remembering her telling me she bought baby clothes, because she just couldn't help it. I kept remembering my stepsister screaming in excitement when we told her and immediately planning the baby shower. I couldn't stop thinking about our dads crying, and me forcing my whole family to get flu shots before they could see the baby. People were excited. And they were excited because of this baby that I was carrying. And even though I knew it wasn't my fault, I still felt so friggin' guilty that everyone was so sad. That part felt like my fault. I didn't want so many people to be sad, and I didn't want them to be sad because of me. And I still feel that. That part still breaks my heart along with everything else.
We had my work Christmas party this past weekend and I held that baby that made me so bitter. I had no desire to look at that child when I first heard of her existence, but I couldn't resist it when I saw her in person. I was informed that she was "six weeks tomorrow." I had lost my baby six weeks ago that day. The math wasn't lost on me. That sweet baby girl fell asleep in my arms for at least an hour. Well-intentioned people and some who didn't know made comments such as "oh, you're such a natural," and "when are you going to have your own?" And somehow I was okay. That baby sleeping on my chest brought me so much peace while breaking my heart at the same time. And I told Ben when we got home that night that I missed our baby. And I still do.
As we wait for more test results and more doctor consultations, I still plan for "trying again," even though we haven't been given the all clear yet. Next time, I won't complain about the aches and pains of pregnancy. Next time, I won't think it's gross when I feel the baby kick. Next time, I won't find the necessary lifestyle changes annoying and inconvenient. Next time, I will be so thankful for the life inside me. I will cherish every hiccup, every kick, every flutter, every tiny movement. I will be thankful for all the aches and pains and nausea, because I'll know that it means my baby is growing and healthy. I will be more open to the lifestyle changes, because it means I'm giving my baby the best possible chance at life. I will not roll my eyes at the well-meaning people asking how I'm feeling every single day (okay, maybe sometimes), and I will not try to hide the baby bump when it starts to show. I will embrace the next pregnancy with all of its agonies and joys.
Some days, I feel like a monster because I "got over it so quickly." And there are days, like today, when I am inexplicably sad and missing this baby that never came to be, and I wonder if I'll always feel like this. As the due date gets closer, I can't help wondering how big the bump would be, if we would have settled on a name yet, how many weeks I'd be now, who would this baby have looked like? I don't want to be sad about it for the rest of my life. But, I also don't want to forget this sweet girl who was wanted so very badly and loved so very deeply by so many people.
If you're reading this and you were invested in this pregnancy, or lived through a story like this of your own, I'm sorry for your loss. All I know now is that somehow, life still goes on, even when you think it shouldn't.
