I am pregnant. Again. But there is no baby. I won’t get to hold one in nine months. I don’t get to be happy. I don’t get to see a tiny heartbeat. I don’t get to excitedly tell everyone about our expected arrival. I don’t get to watch my baby grow inside me. I don’t get to experience kicks from the inside. I don’t get to plan my registry. I don’t get to prepare a place for a baby. I don’t get to be celebrated with a shower as everyone is excited with me. But it’s more than that. I lose out on every step of my baby’s life. Coming home, sleepless nights, pure love, eyes full of wonder, first words, first steps, going to school. The list goes on forever. And so does my grief.
And now I’ve lost out on all those moments for two babies.
I was scared to death with this pregnancy. I had little hope for this baby. Most of the people in my life told me that they would carry the hope for me. I let them. Maybe that would help.
It didn’t.
February 20, 2018 – We went to the doctor early mainly because I was worried and they were able to get me in early. There was nothing on the screen. I felt numb. The ultrasound tech described everything she saw. The pregnancy measured 5 weeks and 4 days with a gestational sac and a yolk sac. Normal development for that stage. But I should have been 6 weeks and 4 days at minimum.
I agrued with the doctor a lot. Last time she was able to give me confirmation when I explained all the information to her. There was no way they could deny my dates because they had checked my levels through my blood right when I got pregnant. But she wouldn’t give me confirmation. She said sometimes development just happens slower than we anticipate and doesn’t follow a textbook pattern.
Okay… I didn’t believe her.
A few hours later, my blood work cane back. My hcg was half of what it should have been at minimum and my progesterone levels had dropped. I knew there was no more hope. But the doctor thought that it would be better to try supplementing with progesterone until next week.
What a mind fuck. So I pretended to not have lost my baby with supplements, but I knew I already had. I cried that night a lot. But I stayed in this limbo with no more hope for almost a week.
February 26, 2018 – I took the day off and so did Bryan. We waited in a different waiting room. There were so many pregnant ladies. I counted the minutes by already dying inside. The ultrasound tech was a different person. This room was bright with happy pictures of babies everywhere. The tech asked me about my last ultrasound.
“It was just too early, right? But your blood levels were normal?”
No…
She looked around a lot. It’s a unique kind of torture to watch your dead baby on the screen. The loss of your happiness, your dreams. The sac had grown two days in nearly a week and there was no further development. The tech said she was sorry and gave us the report.
The doctor explained that the ultrasound confirmed the loss. That I should stop taking the progesterone supplements. That I should miscarry possibly even by the end of the week. (I didn’t.)
When my blood results finally came back this time, my hcg levels were still rising but obviously much slower than was “appropriate for pregnancy.” I wasn’t surprised. They were still rising last time too. My body never let’s go of the baby. It feels like a betrayal. I can never trust my body. Before this, yoga was helping me learn to love my body again. But it keeps betraying me. So the doctor asked that my appointment be moved up to come again the following week.
The week was torture. My feelings are harder to understand, but luckily I’m more aware of them. I’m not really sure if that’s easier. I feel sad, and angry, and bitter. I clung to the hope that I might find out some answers through some testing. I might not. But I did way too much research, and I hope I get some answers.
I started spotting a lot at one point. I felt the physical pain. I prepared myself for the worst. I continued to prepare myself everyday for the loss that never came.
I am waiting for my appointment in the morning. The doctor wants to do another ultrasound just to confirm again. I think that will be more torture. I wonder a lot about if all this is really worth it. I will probably have to schedule another d&c. I think I was hoping to avoid that this time. But I can’t do this anymore. I’ve reached my limit.
This is the hardest experience I’ve ever had to go through …again. It’s not any easier the second time. It’s a hell of a lot harder. I’m terrified of surgery again. I think about what that was like, and it is a lot of trauma. But I can’t bear the thought of continuing this process and not being done. I can’t be pregnant anymore with my dead baby.
Sometimes I feel stronger this time. That I don’t require as much support as I did before, which I suppose is a good thing. It feels like everyone’s concern for me has dried up this time. But other days, I feel so miserable that I don’t know what to do with myself.
Bereavement literally means to be torn apart. It was less than six months ago that I was torn apart. Now I feel ripped to shreds. There is a quote in miscarriage support that give validity to the experience.
“The moment that you died, my heart was torn in two, one side filled with heartache, the other died with you.”
With two pregnancy losses back to back, I don’t know where that leaves me. I’m not sure if I have any heart left.
So I’m not done with this experience. I haven’t even come face to face with this loss yet. But it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. And I thought I would only have to say that once.