My life hasn't gone as expected -- maybe you can relate. I thought being a mom would happen easily and come naturally. It hasn't. I thought I'd never lose a child. I've lost 4. But in the midst of it all, I'm finding healing, comfort and meaning in Jesus. And that is the best life of all.
Janet, thank you so much for sharing your story. I am so sorry that your family did not support you in your grief. So much has changed in 20 years, and, while not perfect, I'm so glad that people are finally getting some support in their losses. Thanks for opening up. Rachel
Oh, how I wish your blog had been available 18 & 19 years ago!
I was 22 when we miscarried our first baby. I was told that most women miscarry their first and never know it. Their period is just a little late and they never know the difference. I wasn't very far along, but I knew the difference in my body, hormones and emotions.
I had to have a D&C August 25, 1995.
We were told we wouldn't get pregnant again any time soon without fertility drugs so I took them for 1 month. We got pregnant with twins. We were scared, but incredibly happy. We were having a boy and a girl.
At approximately 18 weeks, we found out that our baby girl was no longer alive. I miscarried both of them at 20 weeks. I named our son, Nicolas James. Our daughter had re-absorbed and I was convinced that she wasn't a baby anymore. In my heart I knew differently. I really wish I had named her also.
I ran an obituary/memorial notice in the paper for both of them - Nicolas James & Baby Emmanuel. I had a memorial service for them. Our families thought it was ridiculous and uncalled for. None of our friends came either.
I gave birth to them exactly 1 year, to the date, of having my D&C from our first pregnancy, on August 25th. My grandma died 5 days later. Not only did I lose 2 more babies, but I almost lost my life to suicide. My dad even went as far as to tell my husband he would understand if he wanted to divorce me. Nobody, but me, recognized the fact that I was a mom.
My babies were in heaven, but I was still a mom! Friends and family eventually said they didn't know what to really say or do so they just ignored it. I know my husband was upset also, but to this day, I have NO idea as to his real feelings.
We now have an amazing 15 year old son, Andrew. I will never forget our other babies. It wasn't possible for your thoughts and feelings to help me then, but I am ecstatic to find out that my feelings have finally been validated. It was like you were talking about me.
Hopefully your blog will also help family and friends of those with losses know to help, what support to give, and what to say. Thank you for understanding that I am a mama with 4 children and not just 1.
Rachael, I know you're pain all to well. I know what it's like to watch others move forward and to experience the blessings (the ultrasounds, the flutters, the bulging belly) and all the firsts of a baby that we were robbed of.
I hope and pray that somehow, someday, you'll find contentment again. Until then, know that whatever you need to feel is OK. And that others are right here, grieving with you.
Much love,
Rachel
My name is Rachael. I have always wanted to be a mother. I watched both of my siblings have kids right away without a single problem. I grew up confident that I would be the same. Unfortunately, I have not been so lucky.
Six months after getting married, I unexpectedly but very happily became pregnant. My joy was short-lived because I miscarried at 5 1/2 weeks. It was heartbreaking, but I quickly learned how common losing the first is. I felt peace in the knowledge that I can get pregnant and hoped that my body just needed a push into motherhood.
It took 6 months before I got pregnant again. I had faith that I was more physically prepared and that this one would work. I passed the scary 6-week mark. My intense morning sickness comforted me. I felt my stomach begin to grow. I went to the doctor at 9 weeks and got talked out of doing an ultrasound. I was measuring in the 8-10 week range so I had faith that everything was ok and I could wait until next time.
After that, my nausea subsided. At 10 weeks, I started to bleed. It was very light and only lasted an hour. I called my doctor who said it sounded normal. I tried not to worry. At 11 weeks, the bleeding started again and this time lasted the whole weekend. I wasn't in pain and it still didn't seem very heavy, so I waited until I could see my doctor on Monday. On Monday morning, I got up to use the bathroom and was faced with the reality that I was miscarrying. I sobbed. I got mad. I was heartbroken, again.
I went to the doctor and received an ultrasound. My baby had died at 8 weeks. If only I had insisted on an ultrasound before. I got a D&C that night and wished I could just stay asleep forever. I didn't want to start all over. How many months will it take this time? Will I ever get to keep one?
It has been over 14 months now and I still haven't gotten pregnant since. I cry all the time. I scream and get mad. In the last 14 months, all 8 of my best friends have had babies. All of my siblings and husband's siblings have had babies. I am constantly reminded of what I don't have. I feel completely alone and incompetent. Each month that goes by makes me more and more angry. A month is a long time.
The only thing I know is that I have a baby. I feel like my first miscarriage was a failed attempt. There wasn't even a heart. The second miscarriage, however, was my sweet Eliza May. I always felt like I would have a girl first and I feel very strongly that she came and went in the way she needed to. She's watching over me and I will have her again. My heart aches for her and for the babies waiting to come.
It has almost been 2 years since the first time I got pregnant and I pray every day that this wait will end. I grieve the things that were taken from me...the sound of a heartbeat, the flutter of movement inside of me, the growth of a belly and use of maternity clothes, the experience of birth, and the feeling of holding my baby. I want all of these things so badly that my entire body hurts. Will I ever be happy again?
Thanks, Mary, for sharing your story. I hope it provides hope and healing for others.
Rachel
When I was 17, I was diagnosed with endometriosis. I was told from early on that it would be hard for me to get pregnant. At the age of 20, a doctor gave me the option to have a hysterectomy. I told him no way because I wanted to at least have one child.
When I was 22, my doctor found that my left tube was blocked and needing repairing.
At 23 I became very close with a friend of mine and her boyfriend. We all shared an apartment together. She shared her story with me about how she had an abortion and how she mentally suffered from it. I'm not saying I agreed with what she did, but as a Christian I am a firm believer not to judge others because that is for God to do. I was a good friend and supported her emotionally.
A couple months later I was pregnant. I think my friend was mad at me for being pregnant. I could tell something wasn't right, though, and I delivered my 6-week-old tiny tiny baby in the toilet.
Before I lost the baby, I had a dream of a beautiful baby boy with blond hair and blue eyes. I still see this image as of today. I believe the image was a gift from God.
That time was so hard for me. I cried all the time and was so depressed. The doctor gave me Valium, but that didn't even touch the hurt and pain I was feeling. My friend wouldn't talk to me or acknowledge me after the loss. I needed a friend and she wasn't there for me. The depression got so bad I gave up and tried to overdose on my medicine.
Well, God wasn't ready for me yet. I ended up in a mental facility for about a week. I had postpartum from the miscarriage.
To heal from the grief, I got a tattoo of a word in Chinese that meant child. Well at least that's what the tattoo guy told me. My doctor at the time (who was Chinese) said my tattoo read "Son." I looked at him kinda puzzled and said, "What?" He said, "Your tattoo reads Son."
I was in shock. It was truly the perfect tattoo for me. When I was 26, I got pregnant again. Again, I could tell something wasn't right.
I ended up in the emergency room. I had a tubal pregnancy in my right tube and they had to do an emergency surgery due to my tube bursting.
The second time was a lot easier for me since I had the love and support of the father, but the relationship did not last.
At that point, I had one tube that was reconstructed and severe endometriosis.
When I was 30, I met a man I fell madly in love with. He wasn't from this country and meeting him must have been fate. I told him all about my history and how I felt regarding me not being able to have children. He had three all in different countries.
We got engaged and spoke about adopting. We were together for a year and a half and never used protection. At the end of the relationship he started to get abusive. We were living in New Zealand at the time. I knew it was time for me to go back to the States.
When I was waiting at the airport I felt like I was possibly pregnant but brushed it off due to the fact that I was convinced I would not be able to get pregnant.
3 days after returning home, and I decided to take a pregnancy test. It was positive. I was in shock.
I had a very healthy pregnancy and God blessed me with a beautiful baby girl -- 8 lbs 9 ounces. Her name is Mazey Grace. I named her after my favorite hymn Amazing Grace, because I was once lost and now I am found.
She is 6 years old now and every day with her is a true blessing.
A year after she was born I had a hysterectomy. I may not be able to have any more children, but I am OK with that. God taught me that when it is his time to answer prayers he will answer them.
This is one of my favorite quotes I have found. "God doesn't give us the people we want, He gives you the people you need. To help you, to hurt you, to leave you, to love you and make you the person you were meant to be."
Thanks so much for sharing your story. As I was reading parts of your story, friends came to mind who I know could relate. I know there are others who will be touched by your babies' lives, no matter how brief.
Your thoughts on failure so relate with me. I felt as though I could have been writing those words.
Thank you again for sharing.
Rachel
I’ve been wanting to write this for awhile but haven’t been able to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard as the case may be.
I’ve written about my last two miscarriages but in a different way. I’ve written more from the perspective of how I felt in the moment, the physical pain and the shock I was experiencing. Today, I’m going to write about my journey through infertility, loss and coping with the cards I’ve been dealt.
I never imagined I would have difficulty getting pregnant. I was more concerned about getting pregnant before I was ready. I also never thought having a miscarriage was possible. That’s not exactly a fair statement. I never even gave infertility or miscarrying consideration. It wasn’t something on my radar at all. Perhaps it should’ve been given some family history, but it wasn’t.
I was living blissfully in the land of "I’ll start a family when I’m ready and I’ll have two kids. Husband wants 4 but I want 2. He'll have to figure out how to give birth to the other 2 himself."
Now I’ve had three miscarriages. Three. Four pregnancies and three miscarriages. I’ve been told I cannot have more children. Well, actually, I can have more children but it would be a huge health risk and it could cause irreparable issues. How’s that for crappy?
I do have the option of doing more costly fertility treatments. Actually having the egg fertilized in a petri dish and then planting it in my uterus. Sounds romantic, doesn't it? Even with that, there is a very slim chance my body would actually accept the egg and carry to term.
I’m often asked when we will have more children or some variation of that. It’s an innocent question and typical for society. The other day was the first time I answered with, “We can’t.”
I felt a little bad for the person asking as I could tell she felt bad and apologized. For me it was a stepping stone. I was finally able to verbally admit that I can’t.
Failure is something hard for me. It’s easy to say this isn’t failure. There’s a gazillion reasons why you would be right. But for me it is failure. My body won’t do what I want it to. It doesn't matter what pills, exercise, food, wishing or demanding I do, my body just will not cooperate.
It's difficult when my son asks why he can't have a little brother or sister. He's so good with younger kids and he's asked for a sibling since he could talk. He's so loving and helpful and they all look up to him. How do you explain to a 10-year-old that "it just can't happen, that I'm truly sorry and it breaks my heart each time you ask."
You can't. I have to recognize his feelings and try to put it in 10-year-old terms that it's just not something Mommy can do and that adoption isn't something I'm ready for.
I never wanted him to be an only child. I am an only child and I long for the connection I see between siblings. It is truly something special. I didn't want him to ever have to navigate life alone. His Dad and I will not always be here. Hopefully it is many, many years before we leave him, but someday, we will.
When my husband first wanted to try infertility treatments, I fought him on it. I always believed that if we were meant to have more kids, it would happen. That God would make it happen. We had many conversations on why we should do it and I listened to his many reasons and I agreed.
Though I agreed, I still believed that when the time was right, it would just happen. After many tears and devastating months of negative tests, I finally agreed to give it a try. It was not easy, it was a commitment, it was uncomfortable and my body still wasn't cooperating. It didn't produce enough even with the drugs, and neither treatment resulted in a positive result. I was continually reminded of my inabilities.
It's so hard to let myself and my partner down month after month. It's devastating to read a negative result on a pregnancy test month after month for years. It got to where I didn't even want to have sex because if I wasn't, there was no possibility of getting pregnant which meant I couldn't let myself or my partner down. (I do not recommend this way of thinking.)
After my first miscarriage, I was destroyed. I chose not to lean on anyone and only told those that knew I was pregnant. I didn't share much with friends and didn't talk about my feelings. I tried to grieve alone.
I now see that as a mistake. I should have let someone be there for me. I should have let them hold me up because I could not hold myself. was broken. I buried my feeling and pulled myself up by my bootstraps and tried to not think about it. I got very depressed but kept stuffing it down. Eventually I stuffed it far enough down that it wasn't constantly there yelling at me. It still affected me by leading to depression and other issues, but it wasn't in my face anymore. It was behind the scenes pulling the strings.
It wasn't until my second miscarriage that I realized how much the first had affected me. By this time, I had a couple of friends I told and tried to lean on. Neither of them had been through one and couldn't relate. They tried to be there for me but didn't know how. Who does? I've been through it and I still don't know what to say or do except to admit it sucks and it hurts and you will get through it. You'll never be the same, but you will survive.
After each time, I didn't know how I would have the strength to try again. Not that we were actively trying to prevent pregnancy, but in my mind we weren't trying to get pregnant either. I had no emotional strength left. I couldn't keep doing this.
At some point I gave up. I don't know when exactly it was but it happened. I fell into an acceptance that this was my life and I could be ok with it. I write more about this and my ectopic pregnancy here.
I still get emails from a site I joined when I was pregnant with my son. I updated it when I was pregnant the second time and the third time. It kindly sends me updates on my child's birthday and information on their developmental stage. I'd go and delete my information from the site, but I just can't bring myself to go to it. So, I just delete the emails, take a moment to reflect on my experiences and move on.
I still get a pain in my heart when I see a pregnant woman, a friend greets me with her exciting news, or a small child is near. I recognize it but don't dwell on it. It doesn't mean I am any less happy for them. It just means it affects me on multiple levels.
I'm still healing from my three losses and I am forever changed. I'm stronger, smarter, braver and so much more than I ever believed I could be. I'll forever hold those three babies in my heart. I will never have a daughter to plan a wedding with, get a pedicure, and discuss her first love. What I do have is a son that lights up my world, gives the best hugs, whose laugh is contagious and is too smart for his (and my) own good.
So to you reading this, that either is or knows someone going through this type of loss, I urge you to let them know you are there.
Make them a meal, take them a coffee or cookies or anything. Be an ear or a shoulder or just a person that is there. Hand them a Kleenex and make them feel comfortable being a crying mess. They may not feel like talking or even having anyone around but knowing you are willing is huge.
You don't have to have "the right words" just be present. Be that person that says "This sucks and I'm here for you."
Along this 2-year-ish journey of awfulness, I mean, recurrent pregnancy loss, I've had many thoughts. (Most of which are recorded on this blog.)
But there is one very all-encompassing thought which has dominated my brain for a better part of the last 26 months. And I've remained mostly silent about it until today.
"Why me?"
When someone announces a pregnancy the same time I would have announced one of my own ... "Why me?"
When someone has a rainbow quickly after their first loss, and aren't made to go through recurrent loss or infertility ... "Why me?"
When someone reaches a top level in their company without having seasons of struggle or doubt ... "Why me?"
When someone can take the health of their unborn child for granted, I can't help it ... "Why me?"
Now if you're starting to think, "Wow, Rachel, this is a little depressing, a little 'glass half empty,' I will readily admit, "Yep, it absolutely is."
In spite of wanting to change my attitude, the "why me's" have continued.
And yet ... They are not the same.
(Thank goodness.)
I'm laying here in my clean(ish) house (it's all relative, right?), while so many people this weekend have had theirs turn into rubble from a tornado ... "Why me?"
I have the blessing of raising two children, who are whole and healthy. She has none to raise ... "Why me?"
Amazing and dear people have come out of the woodwork to show us love and support during this challenging time. I've been blown away by generous and extravagant love ... She has received only platitudes and judgment. Or maybe worse, nothing but indifference to her heartache ... "Why me?"
My two living children are healthy, and for that matter, so are my husband and I. (Well, at least fertility issues excluded.) And yet, they are battling cancer ... "Why me?"
I grew up in a loving, caring environment where physically and emotionally, I was kept safe from abuse. Home was my haven. Her home was her hell ... "Why me?"
My two live-born children survived infancy. Many women in other countries are so used to having their babies die, they don't even name them until they are over a year old ... "Why me?"
I was born in America, a country where I can be anything I set out to be, and am protected from persecution from the government. Billions of others are born in unsafe, corrupt countries where food is scarce, they have no education, and are mercilessly persecuted ... "Why me?"
My 5-year-old is sleeping safely in bed. Her 5-year-old was kidnapped and turned into a child soldier ... "Why me?"
The adoption of our daughter was finalized. Theirs was disrupted ... "Why me?"
This could go on forever.
It's not as though I'm saying pregnancy loss is not as hard as cancer, or losing your house, or being abused.
It's not about comparing pain.
I'm just saying, pain is pain.
Just as I do not deserve to have 4 unborn babies die, neither do I deserve to have my health, raise my kids, have privilege and opportunity, or have reason to celebrate.
This is about recognizing that, for every hurt I've experienced, there are about 10 more blessings I need to be thankful for.
It's about acknowledging that everyone has a story.
And for me, I need my story to start having much more gratitude -- and much less "Why me?"
Corin wanted to share her story of her miscarriages, and blighted ovum at 10 weeks.
There's a part in her story I could so relate with -- waiting for the God of miracles to act and receive glory. Except it's not the kind of glory she was counting on. I'll let her tell the rest . . .
My ultrasound image was of my uterus, but the empty black hole better reflected my heart.
A “blighted ovum” my doctor diagnosed.
While this is the reason of 50% of all first-trimester miscarriages, it only happens one time in most women. It’s when an egg is fertilized, the fertilized egg attaches to the uterine wall, but an embryo (baby) never forms. Research concludes this is likely the result of chromosomal abnormalities. There’s no specific, conclusive answer for this. There’s nothing you can do to prevent it. It just happens.
My doctor leaned on the counter, arms folded, brow creased. He commented on my three healthy pregnancies, my two other miscarriages and then this. He was perplexed. He instructed the nurse to order blood work.
I sat numb.
Confused.
Uncertain.
I robotically called my husband to tell him there was no baby.
Yes, I am pregnant, 10 weeks, in fact. My hormone levels indicate pregnancy. The embryonic sac indicates pregnancy. I’m just not pregnant with…a baby.
Huh!?!?
I’ve had a natural vaginal delivery, an emergency C-section for a breech baby who turned during labor and a scheduled C-section for a breech baby. I’ve had an early natural miscarriage, two healthy, problem-free pregnancies, an eleven week ultrasound to reveal a baby with no heartbeat (and eventual miscarriage), a healthy pregnancy and, now, an empty embryonic sac.
Motherhood is emotional! From the very start!
While I can’t help but ask God, why, I also have an indescribable, unique peace over this situation. I do not feel an urgency to have closure to this. I feel like this story is very much still happening and I feel thankful that God chose me for this. As I sit in confusion, knowing I have zero control, I feel ok with that. I know God is fully in control. He knows what He’s doing. I am excited to learn how this story will continue. I’m curious why God chose this situation for me. What does He want me to learn from this? I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t to show Himself as the God of Miracles that I know He is. Yes, He is!
My husband took comfort in the story of the Faithful Centurion who believed Jesus could heal his son. Jesus, astonished by this man’s faith, said, because you believed, your son is now healed.
Is God gifting my husband and me with this mind-boggling situation to increase our belief in Him that He can heal our – His – child?
This all took place on Tuesday, January 14, 2014 (and I wrote all of the above on that same day). At the time, I had few answers. In fact, I really had no answers! Just a bunch of confusing, conflicting information.
And, for once in my life, I felt ok with that.
I had assured hope that God would perform a miracle and that miracle would be a growing baby, of course! I’d go back for another ultrasound the following week and we’d see a perfect, healthy, beautiful peanut. The doctors would be astonished at how science had been defied. I would sit back and smile, telling them God has plans for this child.
Scouring the web, I read story after story of women in a similar situations and everything turned out fine. Most often, they were not as far along in their pregnancy as they thought, so a week or two later, an ultrasound revealed a healthy baby. There were a few stories of women who were indeed ten weeks along and went back the following week for an ultrasound that revealed a healthy 11 week baby. Miraculous! Unexplainable! Yes, that’s what would happen to me!
I grew more and more excited at the thought of sharing this miraculous story. I envisioned myself holding the miracle baby in my arms. I could feel her soft skin against mine. Yes, I had also decided she was a girl. My daughter would have a sister. She would be delighted. I would be delighted.
I would gleam with humble, thankful pride over the four children that I’m getting to raise.
I mean, what better way for God to show his great power, His miraculous ways than for this to be “my story?”
I prayed. I prayed for a miracle. I asked others to pray the same. They did.
Three days later, my hormone levels had dropped and our precious baby – who, by scientific terms, never was – became another miscarriage.
Thank you so much for opening up on all the taboo topics -- including the death of your two precious babies. I know that breaking the silence IS helping others.
Much love to you,
Rachel
I just finished reading your blog post, "Why miscarriage matters when your pro-life." I read it outloud to my husband while we were driving and we were both in tears by the end of it.
In November, I just lost my second baby. We named him "Tobin"... a name we had already picked out before we knew things weren't looking good. It means "God is good." It was hard to continue with the name, but we had been calling him Tobin from the beginning. I lost him at 12 weeks.
Baby Tobin -- "God is good"
Rewind a year and a half earlier and we were pregnant with "Mizpah" which comes from a bible verse in Genesis that states that the Lord will watch over us while we are seperate from one another. We lost her at 6 weeks.
I have no earthly children, but two precious babies in heaven.
Rewind even earlier, to fall of 2009. My husband and I just got married. We waited until marriage to have sex, but unfortunately found out on our wedding night that sex was not possible. We went to several doctors to finally we receive an accurate diagnosis of Vaginismus. After many failing treatments I finally was cured in the summer of 2011.
We were 'pure' until marriage -- I felt I deserved to have a good sex life. We endured having a sexless marriage for two years -- I felt I deserved to have an easy pregnancy and beautiful babies. In the midsts of these trials I have, and continue to battle, anxiety and depression.
I feel I have been through the fire, but the issues I have dealt with/deal with -- vaginismus, miscarriage and mental health issues -- are taboo and unacceptable to talk about. That is why your article hit a chord so strong in me. Pro-life advocates and churches, rightfully so, get up on their high horse about abortion but yet fail to reach out those right in front of their faces who have lost a precious baby just like those who are aborting.
I don't know the right way advocate for the memories of our miscarried babies, or to advocate for the mothers who grieve alone because they do not feel validated by their loss ... but if sharing my story can bring us one step closer, I am more then willing to do so.
To read more about Carrie and her husband, visit her blog The Waiting Wamplers. She has a few beautiful, heart-rending posts about her losses.
Thank you so much, Hilary, for sharing with us about your son, struggle to keep your pregnancies, and all the physical and emotions behind loss. I know someone will be able to relate. I know I could.
Hugs to you.
Rachel
Going through a miscarriage
by Hilary
I've thought about mentioning this on [my blog] for awhile. I'm kind of a private person, even though I share some stuff on here, it's mostly just pictures and projects of stuff. I've never really gotten too personal. Miscarriages are very common and a very personal thing, which is why not many people talk about it. I've decided to share my story with you, not because I want you to feel sorry for me, but in case anyone else has or is going through the same thing. It can be a little lonely at times, but reading others peoples' stories/situations helped a little. This will probably be way too long and maybe a little too detailed (maybe even graphic). Who knows if I'll actually go through with posting it...here we go!
Last year on Valentine's Day, I found out I was pregnant. I was a day late and woke up early to surprise Jeremy by making breakfast while he was in the shower. I think I was awake before him just laying in bed waiting for him to get up. I decided I would test just get it over with. I ran to the downstairs bathroom and took the test. I put it down and I thought I could start to see a second line but I ran back upstairs to start the bacon. After I got the bacon started I went back down and what I thought I saw earlier was correct.
This was a little bit of a surprise. I didn't really know what to think and I wasn't sure if I should tell Jeremy before he left for work. The rest of the day I paced around the house. I was nervous mostly because I knew we weren't going to have maternity insurance and we still had a bunch of school loans we were trying (still are....almost done!) to pay off. When Jeremy got home he asked if I wanted to go to the movies and we picked out a time. Finally, I just came out with it! No special or cutesy way to announce. I felt so much better after telling him. We were excited and over the next couple days (weeks really) as we talked about baby stuff and baby names.
We decided to wait to tell anyone for awhile. I called my doctor, but they didn't want me to come in till 8 weeks. I thought that was a long time to wait but time went by. I started to feel sick around 5-6 weeks. I never actually threw up, but was mostly nauseous through out the whole day. My first appointment came and everything looked great. I had an ultrasound done. Jeremy didn't get to go but I texted him a picture right away.
Later that weekend, we decided to tell our parents. Yay! Everyone was excited! Over the next week, we told our siblings. I still wanted to keep it a secret just in case. I went to the doctor again at 10 weeks and heard the heartbeat, everything was good. At 11 weeks I decided that it was ok to let some people know. My mom told her group of friends and Jeremy and I told a couple of our friends too. I was going to do a little announcement on here at 12 weeks (I was already starting to show a little), but decided to wait till after my appointment which was a couple days later.
I'm glad I decided to wait. They couldn't find a heartbeat on the Doppler. They took me to get an ultrasound and I was starting to get pretty nervous. The little baby popped up on the screen and I could see the little arms and legs. The tech didn't say much. Then she said she couldn't find the heartbeat. Nothing.
At first I wasn't sure what that meant. Was this really over? Or was it just another "couldn't find it" type thing. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes but I tried to push them back. She walked me back to my room and on the way it seemed like everyone and their mother was in the hallway. I was looking straight ahead because I didn't want to make eye contact with anyone but I think the tech must have made a face or shook her head a little because I could feel everyone's sad looks.
I was left in the room alone for maybe 30 seconds pushing back and wiping away tears and snot. My doctor walked in and as soon as I saw her face, for the first time, I knew it was over. She was really nice and we talked about my options. She said the baby probably stopped growing at 11 weeks 5 days (ish). She let me walk out the back so I wouldn't have to see anyone and then gave me a hug. Jeremy was supposed to come to this appointment with me but he ended up having to work late. I walked into the bathroom because I could feel myself starting to lose it and wanted to get some crying out before I drove home. It ended up being one of those really ugly silent cries because someone else was in there.
This all happened on a Friday, so we took the weekend to figure out how I wanted to go about doing this. Having a d&c, doing it at home with medicine, or naturally. I had for the most part already decided when the doctor told me my option,s but she told me to think about it. I decided to have the d&c. I felt like it would have been too painful physically and mentally doing it at home being 12 weeks. I was scared it was going to happen on its own before I could have the surgery.
I went in the following Wednesday (would have been 13 weeks) to have the d&c. Jeremy has done the anesthesia for these before and said it maybe takes 15-20 minutes. I had never been put to sleep before so I was a little worried. Jeremy said I had some good doctors and they would take care of me. Anyway, It was time to go back and the last thing I remember was coughing into the mask and my doctor telling me that I was ok. Then I remember waking up in recovery.
I didn't have my glasses or contacts on so everything was really blurry. I think one of the first things I did was check if my teeth were still there. Didn't want my teeth to have gotten chipped getting put under (I hear stories from Jeremy). The nurse told me that I had lost some blood and was getting fluids. I heard her say that she was sending for Jeremy. I think I kinda got the special treatment since Jeremy works there and knows everyone. I had my own curtain around me in the Recovery Room and Jeremy got to come back, which I don't think family is allowed. He walked in and told me how much blood I really lost and how long I was really under for.
It took them about an hour to remove everything. He said he was getting worried because he knew they don't usually last that long. Finally the doctor came in and talked to him and he said she looked a little worried herself (she later told me that my surgery aged her 5 years). Since I was so far along and had so much tissue, I kept loosing a lot of blood. I had lost about a liter of blood and being kinda small...that's a lot of blood! I stayed in recovery for about 3 hours and then 2 more hours in my room getting fluids. I was finally able to eat! I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything after midnight the night before, which was really just dinner time for me.
The recovery time for the d&c was fine. I was just dizzy and weak for about a week afterwards probably from the blood loss. Of course I was still sad. Some days better than others. We had gotten the tissue tested to see if they could find out why I miscarried. A few weeks later my doctor called me and said that the baby had XXYY syndrome. Only males get this. We were going to have a boy. This made things feel more real to me and made me feel worse. Picturing what could have been and all. I don't think XXYY syndrome is very common and is likely it wont happen again.
I had to go in every other week to make sure my HCGs (hormone levels) were going down. It was a sad reminder every time knowing that I should have still been pregnant and seeing other pregnant women there too. In the meantime, my parents came to visit, I went to visit a friend in CT, and we went to Yellowstone.
Things were still not back to normal.
*this part might be a little gross*
On the 4th of July, I went to the bathroom and this big mass came out. It was fleshy colored, but no blood. We think it was left over tissue that never got out during the D&C and that's why it was taking so long for my HCGs to go down. I probably should have gotten another D&C. Jeremy and my parents say no way never again ... my doctor pretty much said that too. She said she hopes to never have to do a D&C on me again (that makes two of us!)
It ended up taking 15 weeks for my HCGs to go all the way back to 0. That's probably about 7-9 weeks longer than most. Of course everyone is different. My doctor said we had to wait 2 periods before we could try again. I just wanted to be pregnant again and go back to where I was at 12 weeks. So when she told me about the 2-month wait, and then the 15 weeks on top of that, it was just getting too long and the waiting was horrible.
A few people know about the first miscarriage, but not many know about the second and third.
In late September, I found out I was pregnant again. We were really excited and so happy it happened right away. I went in immediately to the doctor this time for blood work. Everything looked good. HCGs were where they were suppose to be. We had decided again not to tell anyone until we got past the 12-week mark. Not even our parents.
Well this time I miscarried around 5 and a half weeks. I knew when I started to spot that it was over. I'm not a very optimistic person. My sadness quickly turned in to anger. I was mad that it happened again. It was frustrating. So many people tell you that it's so common to miscarry you first pregnancy and I thought I had gone through that already. Why didn't this stick?
My doctor said it was just bad luck ... it might not have implanted. A few weeks later I got a bunch of tests done and everything came back negative. Normal. Nothing was wrong with me. By this time, I was tired of getting my blood drawn and people at the doctors office seemed to know me.
One lady asked if I had had my baby yet. I was standing at the counter which went up to my chest so she couldn't really see me. I just smiled a little and said no. She kept looking at me waiting for an answer and I told her I miscarried. I felt bad for her. I know she felt bad and was uncomfortable. I never told anyone about this miscarriage and it was sometimes hard to pretend that everything was ok.
I was told to wait a month or two and we could try again. Well towards the beginning of December, I found out I was pregnant. AGAIN! I went in immediately to do all the blood work and this time I was put on progesterone. Here we go again.
This time we were very hesitant to get excited. It's hard to not think about it, and being the planner that I am, it felt extra hard to not think about the future. I had this weird thing about being pregnant at Christmas time. I think it's because I was supposed to have a baby from the first pregnancy and we were going home and I was just excited about that. So I kept thinking as long as I can be pregnant again by Christmas.
Well here we are...a week before Christmas and I miscarry at 6 weeks. I had told my parents when found out this time because if I miscarried I wasn't sure I could keep that quiet. Again I was angry and bitter and I might have given God the stink eye a couple times. My doctor called me and said she just doesn't know what's going on and she needs help. So I am now going to go see a specialist in February. I never ever thought I would be here, 24-years-old and I can't stay pregnant. Fortunately, we have no problems getting pregnant and I know that's a struggle for many.
To say that 2013 was an unlucky year would be an understatement. I'm not a superstitious person, but 13 was just not my number. It's still something I think about daily. It seems like every week there's someone posting an announcement or pictures of their pregnancy or newborn baby online. I'm happy for them and hope for the best, but it's just a sore reminder.
This may come off as rude, but when I hear someone talk about or post about how sick they've been or their one-month-old baby wont let them get any sleep, I'm sorry but I don't feel sorry for them. I'll get over it someday. ;) Some people say that this time in my life will be a blur and it wont hurt so bad.
Hopefully it will be, but honestly I don't ever want to forget it. It's part of me and has made me who I am. It's part of my story.
It's not fair in knowing that I will never have another pregnancy without fear. I can't just be excited and happy-go-lucky. There will always be worry, caution, and fear of something happening. Every little cramp sends me into a slight panic. I'm scared to go to the bathroom. If I don't have some sort of symptom, then I think that it's over.
I suppose everyone thinks about miscarrying when pregnant. My first time I know I did, but I guess I didn't think it could really happen to me. I am young and relatively healthy, I don't drink, smoke or do drugs. I had heard the heartbeat a couple of times and thought that since I was approaching my second trimester that I was good to go. I know next time I probably wont be able to breathe easy for a long time.
If you are or have gone through a miscarriage I hope you can find someone to talk to. Like I said earlier, it can be a little lonely because people don't really like to talk about it, or people don't know how to talk about it if they haven't gone through it themselves. When I had my first, I had a couple people reach out to me, sending me emails, and it was nice to talk to them. Of course, my family was very supportive and always checked in with me and I'm very thankful for that! Jeremy has also been wonderful. We've had to rely on each other more than ever and I think it's brought is even closer together.
This story was originally posted here, and reposted with permission.
Below is a copy of the note I shared with friends and family on Facebook when we lost our second child to miscarriage in 2011. Like you have experienced – the response I received from sharing was powerful and overwhelming. Miscarriage is a silent epidemic – until you have experienced it yourself, you don't realize it is all around you. So many people need an outlet to grieve, that our culture does not provide us.
Thank you for sharing your loss, to touch and heal others.
Jennifer
Baby Morgan: Our Poppyseed
November 10, 2011 at 8:04am
August – Oct 2011
Noah and I had carefully planned this baby – wanting to have another child close in age to our daughter Aurora, and timed to have the same age gap (18 months) as her older brothers have between them. It was so fun to plan the timing carefully, keeping detailed charts and data to maximize the chances of conception. We conceived in just our second month of trying. Because we were charting and keeping track of temperatures, etc., we were able to determine we were pregnant early – (on the first day of college football season, to be exact).
When the test came back positive, it was very exciting. We started debating names (or rather, I would propose names, and Noah would shoot most of them down, mocking me for my poor taste.) We discussed gender – I felt rather certain this was a boy. Noah immediately started looking up all the facts he could learn about Baby’s size and growth. He learned our child was the size of a poppyseed at that moment. We started referring to the baby only as “Poppyseed.” We were due in early May 2012, when Aurora would be exactly 18 months old. Everything was perfect.
I have had complications in previous pregnancies, and we decided to wait awhile before telling our family and friends. At about 8 weeks, I experienced some cramping and quite a bit of spotting, and we feared we had lost the baby.
However, an ultrasound indicated everything appeared to be fine, and we got to see Poppyseed for the first time; the little intricate body and tiny heart beating independently and strong. It never ceases to be miraculous to me to see that tiny, tiny heart beating on its own.
We told our family the same day, sharing the ultrasound photos and telling them all about Poppyseed. Our sons Trevin (6) and Kaden (4) were very excited and loved to propose “helpful” name suggestions (“Thunder Strike” and “Burpy Slurpy”). They talked about Poppyseed all the time.
However, for reasons we do not know, our baby’s little heart stopped beating somewhere along the way. I began to have alarming symptoms, and a second ultrasound at 11 ½ weeks – by unhappy coincidence on Noah’s birthday – confirmed there was no heart beat and baby had stopped growing some time before. We lost the baby at home the next day. It was devastating.
It is so hard to know how to properly grieve a child lost in this manner. Most of the people around us did not even know of the child’s existence, and we live in a nation that chooses not even to acknowledge a baby this small as a real life. But the loss is very real to me, to us.
For my part, I want to properly acknowledge my child’s existence, to give the child the honor of a real name, of some recognition. I want to tell people, but I know that puts them in that awkward place of not-knowing-what-to-say. I don’t need them to say anything at all. I just want to share, to acknowledge the child.
We planted a tree (an exotic, gorgeous Chocolate Mimosa silk tree) in a beautiful spot on Noah’s parents’ property. Our sons helped; digging the hole, throwing in the dirt, tamping it down, and lighting a candle to flicker in the wind and misting rain. I look forward to watching the tree grow tall and strong as a lasting memory and special place for us.
We chose a name: Morgan, (although Noah says he will always think of this child only as Poppyseed). For Noah, the name Morgan is reminiscent of a close friend. For me it is a strong name for boy or girl, and it means “Great Circle.” I like to think of Morgan’s life as a great circle not yet complete. We thought we were waiting to greet this child to life on this earth. Instead, as it turns out, Morgan will wait to greet us to life after this earth.
Most importantly, I want to remember, and not move on as though nothing happened.
I have always believed that life begins at conception and we are eternal beings, whose souls live on after death. I know Morgan’s soul lives on, and that someday we will be reunited. I don’t know what that will look like – I don’t pretend to have that figured out – but I look forward to it. Morgan joins the first baby I lost to miscarriage in 2004, baby Gabriel. I don’t know how it all works, but I hope they can be together to keep each other company.
My mother shared a book with me about a 4-year-old. boy who had a near-death experience and came back telling his parents about the glimpses he saw of Heaven. He said he was greeted by a sister he never knew he had – with brown hair like his mother’s. His parents had never told him they had lost a child to miscarriage before he was born, and they had never known if the child lost was a boy or girl. The child and his other siblings were blonde like their father, and the mother had always lamented none of the children had her coloring or hair.
That story takes my breath away. It’s so hard to conceive of your child in Heaven when you never got to see or hold them, or even know their gender or hair color. Yet, I know they are there.
The Yoga culture has an amazing word, ‘Namaste,' for which there is no equivalent in English. Namaste (na-ma’-stay) means, roughly: “that which is eternal in me, acknowledges that which is eternal in you.” It’s such a beautiful concept – that you greet someone and take a moment to acknowledge that they are more than a physical being with material accoutrements, and recognize their eternal spirit within.
The word has special meaning to me now, as it hits at the very heart of what I feel for baby Morgan. I never want to forget Morgan’s life, and I want to continue to acknowledge my child’s existence.
Namaste, baby Morgan, our precious little Poppyseed. I see, I acknowledge what is eternal in you.
Thank you, Jennifer, for sharing Poppyseed's story with us. I, too, loved the book "Heaven is for Real." It was a major deciding factor for me in wanting to name all my babies. I hope that your story encourages someone and helps them feel less alone. Rachel
When my husband Jordan and I decided to have children, I never thought it
would lead to what it did.
In July, 2009 I found out I was expecting. You can imagine we were completely overcome with joy.
All I could think of was, "Wow that was quick but I am ready!"
Three weeks later, a day after our anniversary, I woke up to the fact that I was losing my first child. I mourned the loss, but knew immediately I wanted to try again.
Luckily, two months later, I became pregnant again.
We put off celebration until we heard the heartbeat. At seven weeks we went in and there was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard: my baby's heartbeat. W never had another problem and I gave birth to a beautiful and healthy baby girl.
Our plan was to wait a couple of years to have another child. In 2012, when our first sweet girl was 18 months old, we found out my birth control had failed and we were expecting. Only two short days later, I lost my second child. Since we weren't planning on having a child right away, we decided to wait a few months to try again.
In April 2012, I found out I was expecting again. We were so excited. But unfortunately I lost my third child at seven weeks gestation.
I was willing to not give up at this point and give it one more try.
Four weeks later, much to the surprise of everyone, including my doctors, I was pregnant again. They watched me very closely. At seven weeks, I heard the sweet sound of my baby's heartbeat. So I breathed a sigh of relief and we started telling our families and celebrating the arrival of our second child.
But the worst day of my life came shortly after when I was 11 weeks.
I walked in to my doctor's appointment, and there was no longer a heartbeat. I have never been so sad in all of my life. I had just lost my fourth child. We immediately went to the hospital for my first D&C; all the others I passed naturally.
At this point I was done trying. I had a healthy little girl and I couldn't handle the thought of losing a baby again. But God had other plans.
On October 31, 2012, it was confirmed that I was pregnant yet again. There wasn't instant happiness because I was terrified. But I put my trust in God and he saw me through. I never was at ease through the whole pregnancy but we made it. In June of 2013 our second beautiful and healthy baby girl was born.
My only hope in all of this is that perhaps I can help someone else through their own loss one day.
Samantha, thank you so much for sharing. I think, today, you have helped someone else.
Several of you have been calling or texting to see how I've been. And maybe you've noticed I'm not responding super quick. (OR maybe you haven't noticed. After all, being slow at communicating is kinda my M.O.)
I'm honestly not sure where to start. I have so much to say, and yet how do I say it without making you worried about me?
So in no particular order . . .
I'm super struggling with failure.
I know it's not like I've purposefully failed in pregnancy. And yet, I have failed. My body has, and I'm made up of my body. Saying my body failed but I didn't is splitting hairs.
I have failed to keep this last pregnancy -- or any of the last 4 pregnancies -- going. I have failed to even create a baby with a heartbeat. I have failed my husband. I know we said for better or for worse. But neither of us thought "for worse" would be me becoming a "habitual aborter." Yep, folks, that's the technical phrase for what I am.
I kill my babies -- out of habit.
I know it's not true -- yet how do you NOT take that personally?
As a result of this so-called failure, I am seeing failure everywhere in my life. I'm not trying to look for it. It's just what I see when I open my eyes.
You know how they say, "OK, try NOT to think about green. Look around the room, and whatever you do, DON'T THINK ABOUT GREEN!" Well, what are you going to find? Suddenly, you realize your room is covered in green things.
So that's me -- but with failure. Looking around my life and noticing all the places that I've come up short.
My business has been at the top of the list. I know that I know that I know I'm not a failure, because I don't quit. BUT. That doesn't mean I don't feel like one.
I feel as though I have failed my friends. I have a lot of friends, a lot of people I thoroughly enjoy and care about. And yet, I can only think about the ones I've disappointed. The people I haven't stayed in touch with, or the friends I've hurt by not being as supportive (as they deserve) in their own pregnancies.
It's not just a notice of failure. It is a deep-seeded fear.
As I look around my house, I don't see all the places where I have kept the clutter out. I only see the clutter I've failed to clean.
I have struggled my entire life seeing the glass half-full. Being wracked by anxiety since I was a kid.
I have made major strides in growing personally to be more optimistic, hopeful and confident in myself. And yet each loss has just brought all those old feelings right up to the surface.
When the bleeding starts -- when the pregnancy test comes back lighter than before -- when the nurse calls, and the first words out of her mouth are "I'm sorry . . . ", the wind is knocked completely out of my sails.
Depression sets in again, and again, and again.
The last two years feel like a roller coaster of completely the wrong kind. The one where as soon as you get on and are strapped in, claustrophobia claws at you, convincing you you'll never get off. And when you're at the scariest points, terrifyingly defying the vast space between you and the ground, you just know that those pesky straps you've secured your future on will prove to be weak and broken.
I'm on that roller-coaster now. And I don't know when, if or how I'll get off.
Sometimes when you are with me, I look to be just fine. When I am with family, that tends to be the easiest for me.
Ryan's grandpa (who will be 101 in a few weeks) is not doing well and was placed in hospice today. We've been visiting him almost every day for the last week, and I think seeing the kids really cheers him up.
So when we are around grandpa, or Ryan's family, I try try try not to think to much about Sophie. About the fact that I hate my body. I try to remind myself to just be present, to enjoy grandpa while we can, and to not burden anyone anymore with my feelings.
And so there, I can play "happy wife, happy mom" quite well.
But other times, actually almost ALL other times, not so much.
Today I went to a birthday party. I stuck by one women, pretty much the whole time, because she knew what was going on with me and she cared. As I sat on the couch, silently observing, I could see the old me flit about the room. "OOOH, a whole room full of people to get to know!," old me seemed to be thinking. She'd walk up to a stranger, start a conversation, and by the end of the day, they had a playdate or coffee date on the books.
She looked inviting to me. Beckoning me to come, just be like her. It's not so hard . . .
But I couldn't.
I sat glued to the couch, coffee cup cemented to my hand, silent and watching. And feeling my heart break.
I am not who I used to be. That person is a stranger to me. I wondered what it would be like for life to feel light again?
An acquaintance at church asked how I was today. I think I said "fair." (My usual answer when the more accurate -- less socially acceptable -- one is, "I'm tired of life.") She prodded gently a few times, and then it came out. Like vomit. All the stuff I'm worried about and, of course, the miscarriage.
Why? I think. Why do I even bother going to church when I just become socially awkward? Why can't I just keep my mouth shut, and stop wearing my heart on my sleeve?
And so today, and yesterday, and the day before that, the thought is heavy on my heart . . . How many more times can I endure this?
After Olivia, the doctor told me that I can't think about how many losses I might have. I just need to figure out if I can handle one more.
This whole journey, that's what I'm thinking. Can I just handle ONE more?
And today, my answer is, I don't think I can.
I. Am. Not. Strong. Enough.
When we shared the news that we were pregnant with Olivia, it was met with great excitement and joy. Now when we share the news, I often must share it with tears. And there are very few congratulations. Mostly people look at me with trepidation, wondering whether to say "I'm sorry" or "I have hope for you." Sympathy describes the looks I receive --- not joy. Very rarely does anyone take my pregnancy announcements to mean "We're having a baby." Mostly, I feel it with a sigh, "Here she goes again . . ."
How many more of these announcements can I get through?
How many more due dates? We have enough. 8/4, 5/14, 1/15, and 11/12. All empty. Do I really want to fill the whole calendar?
How many more shoes do I want to buy? The one and only thing I have bought for my last 4 babies.
How many more kids do I want to name? I have named 6. Madelyn Jane, Olivia Joy, Caleb Michael, Elliott James, *little miss*, and now Sophie Grace. I will likely run out of names before I run out of room in my house for my kids.
How many more times will I ask my friends and family to support me through a loss? Through the subsequent depression/grief/general suckiness?
How many more times can I fight to get on top of these feelings of failure and hopelessness, just to find myself drowning in them again?
How many times can I hole myself up at home because I don't have the energy to make others around me feel good?
How many times can I put my Arbonne team and business through a leader who is inconsistent at best?
How many times can I ask our finances to pay one more medical bill? Cover one more test? Endure one more month of me not working?
How many times can I ask my body to try so hard to get pregnant, watch my boobs swell, feel my abdomen bloat, and feel the exhaustion of making a baby -- only to fail? To watch my body quickly become un-pregnant?
Today, even one more time feels like one time too many.
One baby too many.
One "You were not far along at all" too many.
One "I'm so sorry" too many.
And yet, I still can't tell myself I'm really done.
To make myself not TOTALLY be a downer on this post, I'm going to write a few things I AM thankful for. I have to. I have to remember that I don't own the rights to misery, and that my life really IS good, even if I'm struggling to see it.
-I'm thankful for a beautiful piece of art that a then stranger, now friend, has created for me:
Miss You Memorials, by Rachel Davis
-For a gift card to one of my favorite places ever, Trader Joes, from a dear friend. (And for the yummy flourless cake said gift card bought me today.) :)
-For a family day yesterday to Mount Rainier:
-For my friends and family who keep calling and texting, even when I don't respond. Or being kind to me when I respond with how I'm really feeling, and I know that's not what they want to hear.
-For my mother-in-law, who fully believes in retail therapy, and is happy to share some of her therapy with me. (Yay for cute, new clothes!)
-For my mom, who brought me snacks from Trader Joes (catch a theme here??), made my family dinner, has talked to me almost every day, and has folded clothes and washed my dishes. Love you, mom.
-For my sister Judy who just knew I was sad by the say I said "OK." For her wrapping her arms around me, tears down her face, when I wept for the little baby I desperately wanted. For her taking me to the doctors, and sitting in the waiting room for an hour, without complaining. For making me feel not so alone.
- For my sister Sarah who has called to chat. But mostly for her sending me this beautiful song that helps me to cry. (Wait, do I really need help in that area?) Still, it's a beautiful song, and it helps me know that she gets how I feel:
-For my two precious girls that DO call me mommy. They may keep me on my toes, and sometimes I'm not the mommy I wish I was. But they love me all the same. And I'm forever grateful for my two miracle kids.
-For Ryan, who holds my hand when I cry, and doesn't blame me when I blame my body and blame myself for each loss. Who has also lost so much of his family -- but he still takes care of me and doesn't complain. (At least, not usually.)
-For Stacy, Joanna and Katherine for holding me and letting me cry after our last MEND meeting.
-For Anna, for reading and editing some of the guest stories that I can post on here.
-For the encouragement of Mel at Stirrup-Queens, for encouraging me to start my book.
-For Randy Alcorn reposting my blog. I'm thankful for Crosswalk, iBelieve, Life News, Eternal Perspective Ministries, Live Action News, and every.single.one. of you bloggers/facebook people that shared my post.
-For every comment I receive on this blog -- and all those thoughts and well wishes I know so many of you have, even if I never hear them. I read them all. I know that none of us wish we could relate. And as much as I wish none of you knew my heartache -- I'm so thankful I'm not alone in it.
-For the meals that our foster care director has brought to our house the last two losses.
-For Cari and Deb who have watched/offered to watch my kids so I could have some time to take care of myself.
-For Elizabeth for meeting me for coffee when I just needed out of the house, and needed a good cry.
-For strangers who care. And for friends who care.
-I'm thankful to God that death does not have the final say. That he has some sort of redemption in all of this. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts." (Isa. 55:8-10)
-I'm thankful for Robin. You stick with me through thick and thin, and chase after me just like I should chase you. Love you.
-I'm thankful this life is not all there is. I'm thankful that I will one day meet all my precious babes, and all tears will be gone.
-I'm thankful for heaven.
-I'm thankful my babies will never know pain or heartbreak.
-I'm thankful that the first face my babies saw was Jesus'. I'm thankful that they will never know anything less than love.
So I guess, in the midst of it all -- there is still good.
