Last month, we had what might be the biggest surprise we’ve ever experienced: I was pregnant. Unlike our first two, this one wasn’t planned or expected. Over a year ago, we had considered the possibility of a third child. A year of not preventing, but not trying, yielded no pregnancy. I had started to think I was moving into peri-menopause based on symptoms I had.
So that positive pregnancy test was a shock. I’d be lying if I told you we were instantly excited. Aaron and I had started the new year making plans for the year ahead, and that included increasing our running, more travel, visiting amusement parks…lots of things that were more complicated with a pregnancy/baby in the mix.
The first couple of weeks were filled with quiet discussions of worry and doubt. Were we really ready for this? Could we handle starting over again with a baby when our youngest will be eight this year? Did we need a larger car? Are we too old?
We talked after the kids went to bed, not willing to share the news with them at this point. After all, the first trimester is when a miscarriage is most likely, and since I’m officially AMA (Advanced Maternal Age – meaning I’m old), there was a higher risk of complications. We planned to tell the kids right before our trip to Walt Disney World, and if all was well, we’d announce our news to the world after I ran the Enchanted 10k.
Slowly, as the early pregnancy fatigue set in and I considered needing a new bra for my sudden buxom chest, we settled into an acceptance that this was happening. We began to get excited at planning for a new little person in our family, still keeping the news of this new addition to ourselves and only a few other people. We discussed baby names and wondered if Mira would enjoy being a helper for her little brother or sister. I marveled that I had practically no morning sickness this time (as opposed to my 24/7 nausea with Cordy and Mira), and I was assured by my doctor’s nurse that it was totally normal, as every pregnancy is different. While this was inconvenient timing, we knew we had the resources and the ability to care for a third child, and we’d make it work.
As my first doctor’s visit approached last week, I was nervous. Not excited, nervous. I had this nagging worry in my head, and needed to see that little blurry blob on the screen, healthy and growing. The ambivalence I felt when we first saw that positive test had changed, and I had now grown attached to this new life growing inside me.
On Thursday morning, after going through the usual questions and exam, it was time for my first ultrasound. My doctor and I had been chatting away the entire appointment: she asked how the kids were doing and about our upcoming vacation, I received reassurance that it’s fine to continue running while pregnant as long as I stay hydrated and listen to my body, we laughed about how the universe has a funny sense of timing.
And then as the image appeared on the screen, she fell silent. That was my first clue. She clicked to snap an image, clicking twice more to measure the image on the screen, then taking another image and measuring again. She finally broke the gaping silence with, “You’re 9 weeks pregnant, but the baby is only measuring 8 weeks, 3 days…”
That didn’t seem like a big discrepancy, but then came the confirmation of what I was also seeing on the screen: “…and I’m so sorry to say this, but I’m not seeing a heartbeat. By this point there should be a very visible heartbeat.” I knew this long before she said it. During her silence, I stared at the screen and could make out the head, the body, and the little arm buds, but I knew there should be a flicker on the screen coming from the body section. The body was still – no hint of a flicker.
“Yeah, I noticed that, too. Okay…” was all I could say at that point. There was no rush of emotion in that moment. I was in my clinical mind, as if what was on the screen didn’t belong to me. I don’t know why it didn’t hit me at that point. Maybe I was trying to be brave and not make it harder on my doctor to deliver such bad news. Maybe I was just numb.
She then began discussing the options of what to do next. I could wait it out and have a natural miscarriage, but there was a strong chance I’d be going through that while we were at Disney, and could risk having a partial miscarriage, requiring followup. I could try a pill to help speed things along, but it only had about a 50% chance of success this far along. Or I could have a D&C (Dilation and Curettage), removing everything at once so I’d be mostly healed in time for our trip. The D&C seemed to give me the most control over the situation – I had already lost the pregnancy, I didn’t want to ruin our planned vacation, too.
I signed the consent forms, and my doctor checked with the hospital to see if they had an open operating room for Friday. They were able to schedule it for 7am the next morning. Less than 24 hours between diagnosis and saying goodbye. My doctor gave me a copy of one of the ultrasound images to keep before I left.
Aaron couldn’t be with me for the visit, and I couldn’t bring myself to call and deliver the news via the phone. This really needed to be shared in person. It was a terribly lonely 30 minutes as the weight of this situation sat entirely on me.
It was during the drive home when it really hit me. I continued to remind myself of the facts I’ve known for a long time: if a baby stops growing in the first trimester, it’s usually due to a chromosome problem causing big developmental issues, and if that’s the case it’s for the best for the pregnancy to miscarry. But I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened just a few days before. The baby had stopped developing just a few days before my appointment – did I somehow cause this to happen by something I did on that day? Did I not want this pregnancy enough? Logic and emotion fought back and forth in my mind.
And yet…despite my insistence many years before this that if I ever had a miscarriage I wouldn’t get that upset about it because I knew it was nature’s way of doing a quality check, I learned that hormones and emotions can do a fine job at overpowering logic and reason in this situation. (Even though I did feel that way before, I never questioned anyone else’s grieving process – this was solely holding myself to that standard.) The first tears presented themselves without warning.
Delivering the news to Aaron was hard. Even though I knew this was something I had no control over, I still felt a heavy guilt like it was somehow my fault. Aaron’s response seemed to match my own; at first, he received the news with little emotion. Later that day the full emotional weight would sink in.
That evening we arranged for my mom to come to our house super early the next morning to get the kids ready for school while we were at the hospital. She was sad for us, and willing to do whatever needed to help us out. We also had to decide if we told the kids or not. They were going to ask why we wouldn’t be home in the morning.
Aaron felt it was important to be honest with them, so that evening before bed we shared everything with them. Mira’s eyes lit up when we told them that I was pregnant, cutting us off to say, “We’re going to have a little brother or sister? YAY!” It was so hard to immediately destroy her excitement with the “but…” They were disappointed, but more concerned that I had to go to the hospital. I reassured them that I would be fine and that it was a simple procedure. We tried to focus on the positives – like the fact that I’d now be able to ride all of the rides with them at Disney.
I barely slept that night. I cried off and on, wondering how so much could change in such a short amount of time. I was sad, but I was also angry that this happened after I began planning for and looking forward to the new baby. It felt like a cruel tease.
My mom arrived at 4:15am, and we left for the hospital at 4:30am on Friday morning. Admissions didn’t take long at all, and the nurses and staff were very understanding and kind as they got me ready for the D&C. Aaron was with me until about 45 minutes before surgery time, when we said goodbye and they took me to pre-op.
My doctor had told me the procedure could be done under general anesthesia or with sedation. I didn’t want the grogginess and sore throat that comes with general anesthesia, and I made my preferences known to the anesthesia team. Even though general anesthesia is easier for them, they realized how much it mattered to me and were willing to do it. Since you can still move around with sedation (you just don’t remember it), I agreed with them that if there were any concerns during the procedure, they would be allowed to switch to general anesthesia.
When my doctor visited me in pre-op, I was trying so hard to not be weepy, but the tears refused to stop. She squeezed my hand and, after a few words of reassurance, went back to discussing the procedure itself. That was actually helpful for me – I could push aside the sadness and let my nurse brain take over.
They were then ready for me. I was given a dose of versed to get me ready. Versed is an amazing drug – it’s an anti-anxiety medication that relaxes you before surgery, and it also produces amnesia while in your system. I remember transferring to the operating room table, and I remember them asking me to move my legs into a certain position…and then I remember nothing else until I was being wheeled up to my recovery room, fully alert and awake. I’m sure I was still be awake for part of that time, because they would have told me they were giving me the propofol to let me sleep, but I have no memory of any of it.
I was moved into a recovery chair, covered in blankets, and offered food and drink. Aaron arrived about ten minutes later – I was so glad to have him with me. I didn’t know what to expect, and I was happily surprised that I wasn’t in any pain, and only had mild cramping.
The tears were gone for the moment, replaced by a hollow, empty feeling. I arrived to the hospital that morning still pregnant, and left a few hours later not pregnant.
I had told Aaron before the surgery that if he wanted to share what had happened on Facebook, I wouldn’t object. This was a lot to bear on our own, and if sharing would help to shoulder the grief, I wanted him to do it. As I sat in recovery, he shared some of the messages he had received for us. I’ve never claimed to be all that private of a person (obviously), so while I waited to go home, I wrote a short update for Facebook as well.
I’m surprised how many friends have had similar experiences losing a pregnancy (or more than one, in some cases), and how many of those friends have never shared the details of it in public. I’ve never understood the social norm found in some areas that a miscarriage should be kept quiet, sharing what happened with as few as possible, and acting as if the pregnancy never happened at all. I suppose there’s an argument to be made for not making others uncomfortable by expecting some form of comfort from them, but I have no expectations from friends and family. We all handle uncomfortable situations differently. I wouldn’t hold it against a friend for saying nothing, just as I also wouldn’t judge someone for an enormous outpouring of support. We’re all different.
Now that I’m in the middle of it myself, I can’t imagine keeping all of this in. I never expected that losing a baby at only 9 weeks – a baby that we weren’t even all that excited about in the beginning – could cause such grief, and I’m not that strong to hold all of these feelings inside of me. So…I write it out. For me, mostly, but if it benefits anyone else, that’s okay, too.
There are questions to be answered at a later date. We didn’t expect this pregnancy, so the big question is if we’d ever consider a third child again. We don’t know at this point, and we’re in no state to make that kind of a decision for now. Perhaps in a month or two we’ll give it some thought.
I’m still running the runDisney Enchanted 10k this Saturday, running my furthest distance yet. I’m probably not as ready as I should be, but I need this race more than ever now. I was going to announce the pregnancy at the end of the race, but with this loss I feel like I must cross that finish line, just to have one win on my side. I only hope I can find some ultra-waterproof mascara so I won’t look like a mess when the tears inevitably flow at the end of the race.
This post ended up longer than I expected. If you read this far, you deserve a medal. To sum up: I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. Time heals many things.
