There are still a lot of parts of me that don’t want to talk about this. But I also swore to myself a long time ago that if I had this experience, that I wouldn’t add to the culture of hiding it. So here we go. Be forewarned that I may be forthcoming in my details as that’s how I need to express it right now. I won’t sugar coat my pain for your comfort in this moment. Tomorrow, sure, I will likely deflect to protect myself.. but not right now.
I found out last November that I was pregnant—due July 22nd of this year.
However, I went in for an ultrasound in late January, at nearly 14 weeks, and learned that our baby’s heart had stopped. To see that perfectly formed little baby still on the ultrasound screen but to know that my sweet baby wasn’t in that body anymore was breathtaking. I didn’t know what to say. We had already announced to nearby family and as we were entering the second trimester, I had begun thinking about how we would announce it to the everyone else. Instead, that moment was taken away and I witnessed several friends announce their own pregnancies in the coming weeks that I had intended to announce my own. Saying that, I want to clarify... I’ve known people who resented such announcements because of the unfairness of the contrasting situations and that is not how I felt. I was still happy for those people. I was just a little sad inside that I didn’t feel ready to congratulate them and engage with them in that excitement because the subject was just hard. I felt bad for ignoring their joy but decided it was okay to focus on me for just a little while. Even now, there is a part of me that wants to connect to them because of a shared timing... but I worry I shouldn’t mention it so as not to make them feel... anything that takes away from the moment they’re experiencing. That would not be my intention.
I waited three more weeks for the miscarriage to happen on its own. Still feeling every symptom of pregnancy I had been having all along. The only thing that changed was that I lost that feeling of knowing there was life inside me. Because the moment never came, my doctor prescribed me some medication meant to induce the cramping that would get things going. It was hard not to feel hesitant. Hopeful for some kind of miracle that maybe my baby really was still alive and that it had all been a big mistake. But as that feeling grew that the life inside me was gone, so did my peace about taking the medication.
Taking the medication was a long and dreary process. I laid in bed all day feeling nauseous and more crampy than I’ve ever been. I had thought I might do something mildly productive like make another hat for one of my kiddos while I was laying in bed all day, but found myself unable and unwilling to focus on much of anything. Having had a baby before, I can tell you that it felt a lot like the beginning stages of labor. Only instead of being a contraction that came and left... it was just a constant, continual clenching with no relief and without the hope and excitement of a long anticipated arrival.
Eventually the pain began to intensify and I knew things were probably ramping up. Delivering the baby didn’t take very long once things started and I cannot begin to describe what it was like to see my baby still in it’s sweet little sac that was supposed to envelop and protect it for months to come. Or to hold its tiny sweet little form. To see the tiny little eyes and tiny little fingers and tiny little toes, with a little mouth and little belly. My perfect baby without a future I could witness on this earth.
The moment was messy and unpleasant, with lots of blood, and yet for just a few seconds—serene.
After that, my body made a sad attempt at passing the placenta, which apparently my body has forgotten how to do since it also had to be surgically removed after Logan’s birth because it wouldn’t come out then either! I was tired. I was achy. I was frustrated, and nothing was happening. After a while I started feeling faint and clammy. And then I started feeling just terrible. I laid down on the floor of the bathroom which always just feels so pathetic... and my vision started dimming out and I started to vomit. I felt awful. I could barely stand. After much internal teeth pulling I decided it might be wise to go to the Emergency Room. The trip was excruciatingly long and we stopped at more than one hospital before finding one that had a doctor available in their ER that could help me which was mentally antagonizing..
Hospitals are awful places. Where each and every single nurse and doctor that walks into your room feels the need to talk to you when you’d rather be left alone, and make you fill out paperwork when you’d rather be left alone, and everyone asks you to rehash every detail of why you’re there when you really don’t want to say it out loud ever again.
It took two doctor’s attempts to slowly scrape the placenta out. It was emotional, and drawn out, took way too long, and was not a comfortable experience. Somehow it brought me some comfort that my baby was safe at home and not in this horrible moment with me. To his credit, the last doctor that worked on me asked the other doctor for my background before entering the room so I didn’t have to rehash everything, and I was very grateful for his presence and sensitivity.
I went home feeling somewhat better—relieved it was finally over. But still feeling lightheaded and weak. I stayed in bed all the next day after passing out on the hard tile floor during my first attempt to go to the bathroom that morning. There’s nothing quite like waking up on the floor wondering where you are, why you’re there, wondering why your head hurts, wondering how you got there, wondering why there are people standing over you staring at you... And then feeling somewhat humiliated by the sign of weakness and vulnerability. And then remembering that you need to poop!
A week later, and my head still hurt and my neck was still stiff but not as much. Apparently throwing your head into the ground is not a good idea. Since then I’ve also had issues with vertigo, even just when laying down which is extremely disorienting.
And now, my heart has started to heal. That’s not to say that I don’t still cry some nights when I think of my beautiful baby. But I feel complete, holding my babies that I do have with me. I feel thankful I can watch them grow. And I’m grateful for the chance I have to heal myself.
Because amidst all this, there have still been concerns about determining the cause of the Blood clots in my lungs after Logan’s birth... and I was given the news that my thyroid issues had come out of remission. I had been looking at the possibility of needing anti-thyroid drugs during my pregnancy which was not ideal. Now it seems my thyroid is trying to go back into remission now that the pregnancy is over but my doctor still wants me to get the radiation treatment for it, and I’m undecided and reluctant to consider drastic measures like that... My poor kids have had to be patient with me because my doctor ordered me not to lift more than 20 pounds because the thyroid issues make my heart race and I don’t need any exercise making it race any more than it already does. Which in reality excludes all my kids but I cheat with my youngest toddler who only exceeds that by 2 pounds. I've also just been really tired. Which I've been for months now.
We did finally tell our kids that we had lost the baby. It hit Adam the hardest. But I think it helped that we had recently had a deep conversation about death. We told the kids that we are going to build a fairy garden to help us remember the baby. I wanted something that would memorialize the baby in some way and would be something the kids could be involved in so the baby will still feel like a part of the family. We’ve been very up front with them about it and they were glad to see the ultrasound picture and sweet Adam requested that we print and frame the ultrasound picture for him. I’m glad that for them it’s not a secret, it’s not taboo, and when it’s on their mind they talk about it with whoever is around. It feels really healthy that way and I’m glad it’s in the open that way.
I am holding on to the peace that that baby will forever be apart of my family. Because of my temple marriage, and the promise that my children will be sealed to me for eternity, and the knowledge of life before and after this one. I won’t say that I have found closure, but I will say that I have been reminded to appreciate the little moments with the children that I do have with me.
If one of my other children died, you would know it. To me, it only makes sense that I would talk about this death too even if both are pains I’d rather not feel. This experience is a part of me now just like any other, and to know me, knowing something of my experiences is important. It’s not something I would ever wish to hide or pretend didn’t happen. It’s not something I think should bring people shame. It’s just another moment when people band together to love one another during a moment of tragedy and that is normal. We all do it differently, and that’s okay. But never should this kind of loss be a matter of shame or blame or taboo.
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