My recent miscarriage, though tragic and life-changing, was an unexpected reminder than I need to take care of myself. Was my miscarriage my fault? Not at all. Was there anything I could have done differently to prevent it? No, at least not according to research. But it still made me think about the fact that in order to give a baby the best possible chance to grow, I have to make sure I'm being as healthy as I can be.
I don't expect or even desire to lose a ton of weight over the next few weeks and months. Why would I want to when I know we'll want to try again to get pregnant in the near future? I lost nearly fifty pounds before conceiving my third child and still have about twenty pounds to go before I get back to that pre-pregnancy weight. I even exercised regularly all through that pregnancy (and didn't with my first two), but finding the time and the motivation after having three children has been the issue. I'll admit it: I am completely spent most days, so the thought of exercising is not appealing much of the time. I always feel awesome afterward physically, and mentally I feel accomplished, but actually making myself do it feels like just another chore I have to get done during my already jam-packed days.
So I'm just making small changes and am aiming to lose about ten pounds by Halloween. I'm slowly phasing caffeine and excess sugar from my diet (and if you know me, you know how much I love my sweet tea, which has both). I know it's going to make me healthier in the long run and also create a more ideal place in which a baby can grow once Matt and I feel the time is right to try again. I'm not going to get crazy with the exercise (like doing CrossFit with my husband, which has helped trim him down and build up his muscle) because I don't want to burn myself out. For now, I'm just going to do regular walking (and maybe some jogging and *gasp* a little bit of running), and I'll rely on my treadmill a lot of the time. I may throw in some water aerobics classes here and there at our local civic center when I can go because I genuinely enjoy it, and it is a great calorie-burner.
Aside from the physical aspects, exercise has been a great benefit mentally and emotionally. My moods are better overall when I exercise regularly, so I know it will help me get through the grief of the miscarriage that much better.
I pray I will be able to come back here and post the first of November to share if I have met (or maybe even exceeded) my goal. And if you've recently been through a miscarriage yourself, or any tragedy, for that matter, try to find something positive to focus on that will help keep your mind busy. It won't make you forget--nothing will--but I believe in the long run, doing something good that stemmed from an unhappy experience is probably not a bad thing.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Thursday, September 12, 2013
The Story of my Miscarriage
Growing up, writing was always a form of therapy for me. I could get lost in the world I had created for my characters and forget the things in life that were bothering me. So in the midst of the grief and loss I experienced with my recent miscarriage, I knew I wanted to write my story, not only to help myself heal and not just to help others who are desperate to make sense of their own miscarriages, but because it's the only memory I'll have of the child I never got to meet this side of heaven.
My husband and I already have three amazing children. You can read all about them throughout this blog. Our daughter, who is also the oldest and the only girl, would ask about having a sister from time to time. We knew we wanted to have a fourth and final child, but we hadn't really decided when we would start trying. Obviously, we know there's no guarantee we'd have another girl just to appease our eldest, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hopeful to have another girl so we'd have two of each.
In June, I had my IUD (intra-uterine device) removed because of a bothersome ovarian cyst that had grown; the IUD didn't cause the cyst, but they don't prevent them like traditional birth control pills do. I had read some stories online from others who had developed cysts while they had an IUD that went away right after having their IUD removed, so we figured between the cyst and knowing we wanted to try for a fourth child in the near future, it couldn't hurt to have it removed.
I didn't think we'd conceive right away; I had had an IUD placed after having my second child, and it took several months after its removal to conceive our third child. So I was quite surprised when, just over a month later when I still hadn't started my period, I got a positive pregnancy test. Surprised as I was at the quickness of everything, I was still ecstatic and waited until my husband got home from work that evening to share the news. I was thrilled to be able to tell him we were expecting for the fourth time.
I happened to be going in for an ultrasound the next day to check on the size of the cyst (making sure it had either resolved or was resolving, i.e. getting smaller), and I told the ultrasound tech that I had a positive pregnancy test but that she probably wouldn't see anything because, by my calculations, I should only be about 4.5 weeks along. Sure enough, all she saw was the thick uterine lining. The gestational sac normally can't be seen until at least the fifth week.
Long story short, they did a blood test to confirm pregnancy and then did another two days later to check that my hormone levels were going up as they should be. When everything came back normal, I felt more relaxed and looked forward to enjoying what I had assumed would be my final pregnancy. My first ob appointment and ultrasound were scheduled for three weeks after that, on September 9. I was excited about the ultrasound because at that point, I should have been right at eight weeks pregnant, and they'd be able to see the tiny baby and the heartbeat, plus give me a definitive due date because I didn't have an LMP by which to calculate.
Pregnancy symptoms hit around six weeks. For me, that was pretty much just nausea, fatigue, and sore breasts, all of which I'd experienced with my prior three pregnancies. I never had a physical reason to believe that anything might be wrong.
On the evening of Friday, September 6, I went to the bathroom to find I was spotting. It wasn't a lot, and it was brown and later pink, both of which are "good" signs if you happen to bleed during your first trimester, which is quite common. I told myself not to worry too much since it's a normal thing that happens sometimes and that perhaps I'd just done too much that day. I'd been on a pretty major cleaning spree and was even busier than I normally am throughout the week. I talked to the obstetrician who was on call that evening, who told me to relax and put my feet up and drink a lot of water, which I later found really doesn't make much difference, it just slows your bleeding down. Essentially, if you're going to miscarry, it's going to happen no matter what you do. He also told me that if I was cramping and/or bleeding heavily to go the ER. Part of me wanted to go the ER just to have them do an ultrasound to check on everything, but the bigger part of me didn't want to face it if I were, in fact, miscarrying. I told myself I could wait it out until Monday, when my appointment was scheduled, even though I knew it was going to be a very long wait emotionally.
On Saturday morning, I hadn't bled too much overnight, but I'd also been asleep, and both laying down and being still slows the bleeding. Once I was up and moving, the bleeding increased and was now red, the color of fresh blood, and I was definitely worried at this point. I must have gone to the bathroom every hour, if not more often, to check to see if I was still bleeding. It wasn't incredibly heavy, but it was consistent and not letting up. I was also passing small clots. Even though I was about 90% sure this was the start of a miscarriage, I kept trying to remind myself that nothing was certain and that the baby could be completely fine. Thinking it would help, I googled things like "miscarriage signs" and "bleeding in the first trimester". Some of the stories I found were encouraging and gave me some hope, while others were accounts of the exact thing I was hoping I wasn't experiencing. I looked up things like "placental lakes" and "subchorionic hematoma" and "breakthrough bleeding" that were referenced on some of the posts I'd found that can all cause bleeding in early pregnancy. I even thought perhaps my ovarian cyst was causing the problem. I was desperate for answers, though I knew it was only making me crazier and more worried and confused.
I knew if I sat at home all day, I would only torture myself thinking over all the possibilities in my head. So we decided to try to go about our day as we normally would. We ran a few errands and did some grocery shopping. We were only out a few hours, and I could feel myself continuously bleeding. My lower back was starting to ache somewhat, and I felt slightly crampy in my abdomen, but I wasn't sure if it was real or subconscious. In the meantime, I prayed and prayed to God to let our baby be ok, to please not take him or her away, that we were all so excited to welcome him or her into the family. I begged and pleaded and bargained, even though I know God doesn't work that way.
On Sunday, we went to church as usual, where I kept my composure minus one small meltdown, and I had some plans that afternoon, which I ended up keeping despite my emotional state. I thought it would help get my mind off things for a short time, which it did. But for the rest of the evening, I was just a mess. I was scared about what we would find out on Monday on the ultrasound and knew I'd be a basket case if we found out our baby hadn't made it. As I scared as I was for the outcome, the feeling of not knowing at all at this point was even worse.
Monday morning dragged on, but I tried to stay as busy as I could. I homeschooled my older two kids just like any other normal Monday. My husband Matt had called out of work to be able to go with me, thankfully. My sister came to stay with our kids after lunch while Matt and I headed to the doctor's office. My ultrasound was scheduled first and would be followed by my appointment with my doctor. When the ultrasound tech called my name, I was ok until we walked into the room, where I broke down in front of her as I was telling her that I'd been bleeding all weekend. She calmly said that everything could still be ok, that bleeding was very common and that some women go onto have healthy pregnancies and healthy babies despite the bleeding. She did the initial transabdominal ultrasound and took some images, then allowed me to empty my bladder before moving on to the transvaginal ultrasound. After coming back into the room to do the transvaginal ultrasound, she told me that I should save my questions for the doctor because I would probably have questions she couldn't answer. I knew from her statement that her findings were not good with the abdominal ultrasound, and I prepared myself for the worst as she began the next one.
I watched the screen as she looked and typed and measured, and I wasn't seeing anything that resembled a baby. Having had my fair share of ultrasounds, I knew what to look for, and it just wasn't there. Finally, I looked away and started silently crying again as my husband held my hand. She was finished before I wanted her to be. I wanted her to be wrong. I wanted her to go back and be sure that my baby wasn't there. I wanted it to all be a mistake. But I knew it wasn't, and I covered my eyes and cried so hard it hurt inside.
What followed was one of the worst parts of the day: having to go back into the waiting room and wait again for the visit with the doctor. I had to walk into a room of people with my emotions written all over my face. I'm not sure what I expected. It's not like they have a special room for patients who miscarry, or a teleporting machine that will zap us anywhere but in front of the eyes of a dozen strangers.
So we waited until the nurse called me back, who I remember taking my blood pressure and apologizing for our loss, and then we waited a while for the doctor. I don't remember how long. I just remember I was crying, and Matt had been crying quietly, and he held me for a long time, and I cried until I thought I'd run out of tears, and then cried more. I told him I was sorry for losing our baby, to which he told me to never think that it was my fault. I said a lot of things, trying to make sense of it, trying to work through the confusion and grief that had consumed my entire body and clouded my mind. I can not pinpoint another time in my life when I've ever felt the way I did that day, in those moments. It was like I was drowning, gasping for air, trying to see my way through a fog, but could find no way out of any of it. There are no words to describe the amount of pain and heartache I felt.
The doctor finally came in with a solemn look and went over my recent history to make sure he was up to date on everything. He explained that the ultrasound showed a very small gestational sac and placental tissue but no embryo or yolk sac. He explained I had what is called a "blighted ovum." I later had to look this up because trying to listen and understand and mentally process was a struggle at this point. A blighted ovum, or anembryonic pregnancy, is defined as "a fertilized egg that implants but does not develop. The gestational sac continues to grow but the baby does not grow within the sac. If the case is a true blighted ovum, the yolk and fetal pole will not be present." Given this diagnosis, which I also read is very common and accounts for half or more of early miscarriages, I felt that if I shared this information with others that people would dismiss my grief and wonder why I was so upset since there wasn't a baby to begin with, which is not true at all. An egg was fertilized and implanted, it just didn't develop beyond that. I was still pregnant. My husband and I created a life together that I carried in my body, even if only for a short time. It only takes a pink line on a stick to make you instantly form a bond with that tiny life, which was never insignificant, no matter how "undeveloped".
The doctor went over my options: I could go home and wait to pass everything naturally (the sac and tissue from the placenta), or I could have a D and C (dilatation and curettage), a quick and minor surgery where they put you to sleep and dilate your cervix, then clean everything out. Because I was worried that passing it naturally at home might be difficult to do with the kids around, and I didn't want them to be scared or worried if I was in a lot of pain, I initially leaned toward doing the D and C. My doctor went over the details of the D and C and told me we could think it over and call the next day if that's what we chose to do.
On the way home, I called my mom, then I called my sister to let her know we were on our way home since she was there with our three children. I cried to my mom; I don't remember everything I said. A lot of Monday was a blur and haze after that. I was so consumed with grief that it was hard to think clearly about anything. Once we got home, we had to tell our kids, particularly our older two, since the youngest, being only two, was unaware of any of it. Our older two already somewhat understood what had been going on; my emotional state over the weekend forced me to tell them that the baby might be sick. My daughter immediately asked if the baby was indeed sick, and I told her yes. I told her that Jesus took the baby to heaven. She looked at me with disappointment and said, "The baby died?" I said yes again with tears in my eyes, trying to keep myself together for my kids' sake. She then something about her Nana (my husband's mother, who passed away earlier this year) getting to take care of our baby in heaven. And I could tell she was at peace with this. If only we as adults could share this black and white perspective and have the faith of a child, which is what God hopes for all of His children.
Most of the night, I just wanted to lay around on the couch and not do anything, even though it meant I was constantly thinking about it and reliving it and crying all over again. Maybe it wasn't helpful, but I didn't know what else to do. My sister had offered to take our kids to play at the park and to get some dinner that evening; I'm not sure if I thanked her or not, but I'm glad she did. It may sound bad, but being around everyone just added to the pain, I guess because I was watching life continue to go on even though my world was falling apart. Being around my children was bittersweet that evening because although I was grateful to have these three blessings, it already felt like someone was missing, like something was off. They'd never know their brother or sister, and all those images I'd created in my mind of what the future with four children held had instantly vanished.
While I was by myself, I felt a need to talk to someone, so I called my friend Shelly, who has been through multiple miscarriages. Knowing she has been through this situation, and more than once, and knowing she has overcome them and still remains strong, gave me hope and the reassurance that, yes, I'm going to be ok. I knew I would have to take it one second...one minute...one hour...one day at a time. Somewhere in our conversation we discussed if I was going to choose to let the miscarriage happen naturally or if I should go through with the D and C. Shelly has done both and preferred the natural way. The more I thought about it, the more I knew I needed to research my options and figure out what would be best for me.
So later on, with a clearer head, I read some articles and stories from other women who had let their miscarriages occur naturally at home without medical intervention. Physically, I knew I could get through it because the pain was supposed to be nothing more than strong menstrual cramps, and unless I started to bleed heavily or feel faint or run a fever, there was no need to seek medical help. My body has carried and birthed three children naturally, it has done what God designed the female body to be able to do, so I felt confident my body would know what to do with what remained of my pregnancy. I had to ask myself if I could emotionally handle it, and the answer was yes. I wanted to go through it, to feel everything I could, and hold it in my heart forever. I didn't want to be put to sleep in a hospital with what remained of the life inside me one minute only to wake up and it be gone without a memory of the final moments. Maybe it's hard for some to understand; I'm sure there are some women who just want it done and over with and don't want to remember it. To each her own. My choice was just that: mine.
I remember being so ready to go to bed that Monday night because I knew that I wouldn't have to think about it while I was asleep, that I could get six or seven hours of peaceful oblivion. In the morning, when I woke up, I felt at peace for a mere few seconds before the realization hit me like lightening: you lost your baby. I heard Emberlynn calling from across the house, as she does nearly every morning, for me to come unhook her from her feeding tube. I had to force myself out of bed, telling myself that I didn't have a choice. If not for my kids, I'd have laid in that bed all day, wallowing and reliving the day before, screaming inside and crying and feeling sorry for myself. In essence, my kids were my reason to go on, my proverbial kick in the behind, because they needed me.
The normal tasks to which I've become accustomed--the everyday, typical, basically mindless things--were hard for me to do that next day. It was just hard to care about anything. I just went through the motions, making meals for my kids, cleaning up messes, doing the laundry. Nothing felt right. Everything around me lost its color, its vibrancy. Foods lost their taste, what little I ate. I broke down in front of my kids more times than I want to remember, but maybe it was ok for them to see the grief, to understand that sometimes crying and being hysterical is part of healing, and that it's ok to feel that way. They kept asking if I was still sad when I wasn't crying, and I'd say, Yes, I'm still sad, and I'll probably be sad for a while. I snapped at them more than I wished to, feeling guilty afterward each time.
Sometime that morning, I had phoned my doctor's office to let them know I had chosen to let everything pass naturally at home, and although I'd done my research, I wanted to hear from them what to expect, how long it might take, when I should follow up...I felt like a robot asking them my list of questions that I'd rehearsed in my mind with the intention of not wanting to cry on the phone. I did anyway, for a brief time, before composing myself and continuing with my questions. They said within seven to ten days from the start of the bleeding, I should expect my bleeding to increase, to feel cramping a little more intense than menstrual cramps, and tissue to pass. Once that happened, my bleeding should slow down and continue for just a few more days. Given this information, I expected I should pass everything sometime over the weekend, for which I was grateful since Matt would be home.
When Matt arrived home Tuesday evening, I cried in his arms and was just so relieved for him to be there. With everything still being fresh and raw, it had been a hard day, and I needed him to comfort me and tell me it was all going to be ok. We talked a lot that evening and cried together, prayed together, and just held each other. In my heart, I thanked God for this strong, faithful man He has given me with which to share my life, who lifts me up, and who helps me remember His grace and love when my eyes are blinded by darkness. This was also the night we decided to share our loss publicly, since at the time only close family and friends were aware. I struggled with doing this because, for whatever reason, I felt ashamed to admit I had lost a child. Miscarriage is so common, yet there is a stigma attached to it. As Shelly had put it, you almost feel embarrassed to talk about it, like we have failed at something. Once I began telling people about it, the support we received and the magnitude of prayers being lifted up for us was overwhelming, and several women revealed they had experienced miscarriages as well, which I would probably have never discovered had I not shared my own. I felt more at peace because I didn't have to hide anything anymore, and I could allow myself to start the healing process.
On Wednesday, I didn't feel as weighed down by it as I had the day before. I think having everything out in the open and knowing that people had been and were continuing to pray for us was what helped push me to press on. I didn't cry at the drop of a hat like I had the past couple of days. I was able to smile at things a little more. I was trying to take in and soak up the good and positive moments with my family, reminding myself that life goes on and things will slowly get better, day by day.
*The next part of my story may not be for the faint of heart.* It was the middle of the day Wednesday that I went to the bathroom, and something felt a little off. I barely pushed down as if I was pushing out a baby, and out slid something larger than normal. It felt similar to birthing a baby, but on a much, much smaller scale, and without the pain. In fact, I hadn't felt any pain at all. I wondered if it was a very large clot, since I had been passing small clots on and off for the last several days. I examined what had passed to find that it was a good-size piece of tissue, probably three to four inches in length, and judging by the looks, I believe it was the placenta. For the remainder of the day, I barely bled, which was very different than what I had been experiencing in the days leading up to it. When nothing else happened and my bleeding continued to be minimal, I felt I could safely assume that I had passed the tiny gestational sac without realizing it (I most likely mistook it for a clot), and the placenta had come later on. I was surprised I had experienced no pain and no excessive bleeding leading up to it. But it did give me the closure I felt I needed.
When I woke up that next Monday morning, I realized after a little while that it was the first morning the miscarriage hadn't been the very first thing on my mind. I didn't know how to feel about that. I knew I wasn't forgetting about it; I'm quite sure no one ever forgets these kinds of experiences. If nothing else, the pain forever etches into our souls, like an ever-present scar that you don't constantly look at but notice from time to time and remember exactly how it got there. I will never forget my fourth baby, who shared my body and my blood, who was a part of me and part of Matt, but who never even got to have a heartbeat or take a breath, and who will never have a name.
I believe one day, when God calls me home, I will meet this child that never got to have a life on earth, but who will have existed blissfully in heaven with no worries, no pain, not a care in the world, being held in the arms of Jesus. And I imagine when this day comes, my child will be saying, "Here I am, Mommy. You don't have to be sad anymore. I've been here all along."
My husband and I already have three amazing children. You can read all about them throughout this blog. Our daughter, who is also the oldest and the only girl, would ask about having a sister from time to time. We knew we wanted to have a fourth and final child, but we hadn't really decided when we would start trying. Obviously, we know there's no guarantee we'd have another girl just to appease our eldest, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hopeful to have another girl so we'd have two of each.
In June, I had my IUD (intra-uterine device) removed because of a bothersome ovarian cyst that had grown; the IUD didn't cause the cyst, but they don't prevent them like traditional birth control pills do. I had read some stories online from others who had developed cysts while they had an IUD that went away right after having their IUD removed, so we figured between the cyst and knowing we wanted to try for a fourth child in the near future, it couldn't hurt to have it removed.
I didn't think we'd conceive right away; I had had an IUD placed after having my second child, and it took several months after its removal to conceive our third child. So I was quite surprised when, just over a month later when I still hadn't started my period, I got a positive pregnancy test. Surprised as I was at the quickness of everything, I was still ecstatic and waited until my husband got home from work that evening to share the news. I was thrilled to be able to tell him we were expecting for the fourth time.
I happened to be going in for an ultrasound the next day to check on the size of the cyst (making sure it had either resolved or was resolving, i.e. getting smaller), and I told the ultrasound tech that I had a positive pregnancy test but that she probably wouldn't see anything because, by my calculations, I should only be about 4.5 weeks along. Sure enough, all she saw was the thick uterine lining. The gestational sac normally can't be seen until at least the fifth week.
Long story short, they did a blood test to confirm pregnancy and then did another two days later to check that my hormone levels were going up as they should be. When everything came back normal, I felt more relaxed and looked forward to enjoying what I had assumed would be my final pregnancy. My first ob appointment and ultrasound were scheduled for three weeks after that, on September 9. I was excited about the ultrasound because at that point, I should have been right at eight weeks pregnant, and they'd be able to see the tiny baby and the heartbeat, plus give me a definitive due date because I didn't have an LMP by which to calculate.
Pregnancy symptoms hit around six weeks. For me, that was pretty much just nausea, fatigue, and sore breasts, all of which I'd experienced with my prior three pregnancies. I never had a physical reason to believe that anything might be wrong.
On the evening of Friday, September 6, I went to the bathroom to find I was spotting. It wasn't a lot, and it was brown and later pink, both of which are "good" signs if you happen to bleed during your first trimester, which is quite common. I told myself not to worry too much since it's a normal thing that happens sometimes and that perhaps I'd just done too much that day. I'd been on a pretty major cleaning spree and was even busier than I normally am throughout the week. I talked to the obstetrician who was on call that evening, who told me to relax and put my feet up and drink a lot of water, which I later found really doesn't make much difference, it just slows your bleeding down. Essentially, if you're going to miscarry, it's going to happen no matter what you do. He also told me that if I was cramping and/or bleeding heavily to go the ER. Part of me wanted to go the ER just to have them do an ultrasound to check on everything, but the bigger part of me didn't want to face it if I were, in fact, miscarrying. I told myself I could wait it out until Monday, when my appointment was scheduled, even though I knew it was going to be a very long wait emotionally.
On Saturday morning, I hadn't bled too much overnight, but I'd also been asleep, and both laying down and being still slows the bleeding. Once I was up and moving, the bleeding increased and was now red, the color of fresh blood, and I was definitely worried at this point. I must have gone to the bathroom every hour, if not more often, to check to see if I was still bleeding. It wasn't incredibly heavy, but it was consistent and not letting up. I was also passing small clots. Even though I was about 90% sure this was the start of a miscarriage, I kept trying to remind myself that nothing was certain and that the baby could be completely fine. Thinking it would help, I googled things like "miscarriage signs" and "bleeding in the first trimester". Some of the stories I found were encouraging and gave me some hope, while others were accounts of the exact thing I was hoping I wasn't experiencing. I looked up things like "placental lakes" and "subchorionic hematoma" and "breakthrough bleeding" that were referenced on some of the posts I'd found that can all cause bleeding in early pregnancy. I even thought perhaps my ovarian cyst was causing the problem. I was desperate for answers, though I knew it was only making me crazier and more worried and confused.
I knew if I sat at home all day, I would only torture myself thinking over all the possibilities in my head. So we decided to try to go about our day as we normally would. We ran a few errands and did some grocery shopping. We were only out a few hours, and I could feel myself continuously bleeding. My lower back was starting to ache somewhat, and I felt slightly crampy in my abdomen, but I wasn't sure if it was real or subconscious. In the meantime, I prayed and prayed to God to let our baby be ok, to please not take him or her away, that we were all so excited to welcome him or her into the family. I begged and pleaded and bargained, even though I know God doesn't work that way.
On Sunday, we went to church as usual, where I kept my composure minus one small meltdown, and I had some plans that afternoon, which I ended up keeping despite my emotional state. I thought it would help get my mind off things for a short time, which it did. But for the rest of the evening, I was just a mess. I was scared about what we would find out on Monday on the ultrasound and knew I'd be a basket case if we found out our baby hadn't made it. As I scared as I was for the outcome, the feeling of not knowing at all at this point was even worse.
Monday morning dragged on, but I tried to stay as busy as I could. I homeschooled my older two kids just like any other normal Monday. My husband Matt had called out of work to be able to go with me, thankfully. My sister came to stay with our kids after lunch while Matt and I headed to the doctor's office. My ultrasound was scheduled first and would be followed by my appointment with my doctor. When the ultrasound tech called my name, I was ok until we walked into the room, where I broke down in front of her as I was telling her that I'd been bleeding all weekend. She calmly said that everything could still be ok, that bleeding was very common and that some women go onto have healthy pregnancies and healthy babies despite the bleeding. She did the initial transabdominal ultrasound and took some images, then allowed me to empty my bladder before moving on to the transvaginal ultrasound. After coming back into the room to do the transvaginal ultrasound, she told me that I should save my questions for the doctor because I would probably have questions she couldn't answer. I knew from her statement that her findings were not good with the abdominal ultrasound, and I prepared myself for the worst as she began the next one.
I watched the screen as she looked and typed and measured, and I wasn't seeing anything that resembled a baby. Having had my fair share of ultrasounds, I knew what to look for, and it just wasn't there. Finally, I looked away and started silently crying again as my husband held my hand. She was finished before I wanted her to be. I wanted her to be wrong. I wanted her to go back and be sure that my baby wasn't there. I wanted it to all be a mistake. But I knew it wasn't, and I covered my eyes and cried so hard it hurt inside.
What followed was one of the worst parts of the day: having to go back into the waiting room and wait again for the visit with the doctor. I had to walk into a room of people with my emotions written all over my face. I'm not sure what I expected. It's not like they have a special room for patients who miscarry, or a teleporting machine that will zap us anywhere but in front of the eyes of a dozen strangers.
So we waited until the nurse called me back, who I remember taking my blood pressure and apologizing for our loss, and then we waited a while for the doctor. I don't remember how long. I just remember I was crying, and Matt had been crying quietly, and he held me for a long time, and I cried until I thought I'd run out of tears, and then cried more. I told him I was sorry for losing our baby, to which he told me to never think that it was my fault. I said a lot of things, trying to make sense of it, trying to work through the confusion and grief that had consumed my entire body and clouded my mind. I can not pinpoint another time in my life when I've ever felt the way I did that day, in those moments. It was like I was drowning, gasping for air, trying to see my way through a fog, but could find no way out of any of it. There are no words to describe the amount of pain and heartache I felt.
The doctor finally came in with a solemn look and went over my recent history to make sure he was up to date on everything. He explained that the ultrasound showed a very small gestational sac and placental tissue but no embryo or yolk sac. He explained I had what is called a "blighted ovum." I later had to look this up because trying to listen and understand and mentally process was a struggle at this point. A blighted ovum, or anembryonic pregnancy, is defined as "a fertilized egg that implants but does not develop. The gestational sac continues to grow but the baby does not grow within the sac. If the case is a true blighted ovum, the yolk and fetal pole will not be present." Given this diagnosis, which I also read is very common and accounts for half or more of early miscarriages, I felt that if I shared this information with others that people would dismiss my grief and wonder why I was so upset since there wasn't a baby to begin with, which is not true at all. An egg was fertilized and implanted, it just didn't develop beyond that. I was still pregnant. My husband and I created a life together that I carried in my body, even if only for a short time. It only takes a pink line on a stick to make you instantly form a bond with that tiny life, which was never insignificant, no matter how "undeveloped".
The doctor went over my options: I could go home and wait to pass everything naturally (the sac and tissue from the placenta), or I could have a D and C (dilatation and curettage), a quick and minor surgery where they put you to sleep and dilate your cervix, then clean everything out. Because I was worried that passing it naturally at home might be difficult to do with the kids around, and I didn't want them to be scared or worried if I was in a lot of pain, I initially leaned toward doing the D and C. My doctor went over the details of the D and C and told me we could think it over and call the next day if that's what we chose to do.
On the way home, I called my mom, then I called my sister to let her know we were on our way home since she was there with our three children. I cried to my mom; I don't remember everything I said. A lot of Monday was a blur and haze after that. I was so consumed with grief that it was hard to think clearly about anything. Once we got home, we had to tell our kids, particularly our older two, since the youngest, being only two, was unaware of any of it. Our older two already somewhat understood what had been going on; my emotional state over the weekend forced me to tell them that the baby might be sick. My daughter immediately asked if the baby was indeed sick, and I told her yes. I told her that Jesus took the baby to heaven. She looked at me with disappointment and said, "The baby died?" I said yes again with tears in my eyes, trying to keep myself together for my kids' sake. She then something about her Nana (my husband's mother, who passed away earlier this year) getting to take care of our baby in heaven. And I could tell she was at peace with this. If only we as adults could share this black and white perspective and have the faith of a child, which is what God hopes for all of His children.
Most of the night, I just wanted to lay around on the couch and not do anything, even though it meant I was constantly thinking about it and reliving it and crying all over again. Maybe it wasn't helpful, but I didn't know what else to do. My sister had offered to take our kids to play at the park and to get some dinner that evening; I'm not sure if I thanked her or not, but I'm glad she did. It may sound bad, but being around everyone just added to the pain, I guess because I was watching life continue to go on even though my world was falling apart. Being around my children was bittersweet that evening because although I was grateful to have these three blessings, it already felt like someone was missing, like something was off. They'd never know their brother or sister, and all those images I'd created in my mind of what the future with four children held had instantly vanished.
While I was by myself, I felt a need to talk to someone, so I called my friend Shelly, who has been through multiple miscarriages. Knowing she has been through this situation, and more than once, and knowing she has overcome them and still remains strong, gave me hope and the reassurance that, yes, I'm going to be ok. I knew I would have to take it one second...one minute...one hour...one day at a time. Somewhere in our conversation we discussed if I was going to choose to let the miscarriage happen naturally or if I should go through with the D and C. Shelly has done both and preferred the natural way. The more I thought about it, the more I knew I needed to research my options and figure out what would be best for me.
So later on, with a clearer head, I read some articles and stories from other women who had let their miscarriages occur naturally at home without medical intervention. Physically, I knew I could get through it because the pain was supposed to be nothing more than strong menstrual cramps, and unless I started to bleed heavily or feel faint or run a fever, there was no need to seek medical help. My body has carried and birthed three children naturally, it has done what God designed the female body to be able to do, so I felt confident my body would know what to do with what remained of my pregnancy. I had to ask myself if I could emotionally handle it, and the answer was yes. I wanted to go through it, to feel everything I could, and hold it in my heart forever. I didn't want to be put to sleep in a hospital with what remained of the life inside me one minute only to wake up and it be gone without a memory of the final moments. Maybe it's hard for some to understand; I'm sure there are some women who just want it done and over with and don't want to remember it. To each her own. My choice was just that: mine.
I remember being so ready to go to bed that Monday night because I knew that I wouldn't have to think about it while I was asleep, that I could get six or seven hours of peaceful oblivion. In the morning, when I woke up, I felt at peace for a mere few seconds before the realization hit me like lightening: you lost your baby. I heard Emberlynn calling from across the house, as she does nearly every morning, for me to come unhook her from her feeding tube. I had to force myself out of bed, telling myself that I didn't have a choice. If not for my kids, I'd have laid in that bed all day, wallowing and reliving the day before, screaming inside and crying and feeling sorry for myself. In essence, my kids were my reason to go on, my proverbial kick in the behind, because they needed me.
The normal tasks to which I've become accustomed--the everyday, typical, basically mindless things--were hard for me to do that next day. It was just hard to care about anything. I just went through the motions, making meals for my kids, cleaning up messes, doing the laundry. Nothing felt right. Everything around me lost its color, its vibrancy. Foods lost their taste, what little I ate. I broke down in front of my kids more times than I want to remember, but maybe it was ok for them to see the grief, to understand that sometimes crying and being hysterical is part of healing, and that it's ok to feel that way. They kept asking if I was still sad when I wasn't crying, and I'd say, Yes, I'm still sad, and I'll probably be sad for a while. I snapped at them more than I wished to, feeling guilty afterward each time.
Sometime that morning, I had phoned my doctor's office to let them know I had chosen to let everything pass naturally at home, and although I'd done my research, I wanted to hear from them what to expect, how long it might take, when I should follow up...I felt like a robot asking them my list of questions that I'd rehearsed in my mind with the intention of not wanting to cry on the phone. I did anyway, for a brief time, before composing myself and continuing with my questions. They said within seven to ten days from the start of the bleeding, I should expect my bleeding to increase, to feel cramping a little more intense than menstrual cramps, and tissue to pass. Once that happened, my bleeding should slow down and continue for just a few more days. Given this information, I expected I should pass everything sometime over the weekend, for which I was grateful since Matt would be home.
When Matt arrived home Tuesday evening, I cried in his arms and was just so relieved for him to be there. With everything still being fresh and raw, it had been a hard day, and I needed him to comfort me and tell me it was all going to be ok. We talked a lot that evening and cried together, prayed together, and just held each other. In my heart, I thanked God for this strong, faithful man He has given me with which to share my life, who lifts me up, and who helps me remember His grace and love when my eyes are blinded by darkness. This was also the night we decided to share our loss publicly, since at the time only close family and friends were aware. I struggled with doing this because, for whatever reason, I felt ashamed to admit I had lost a child. Miscarriage is so common, yet there is a stigma attached to it. As Shelly had put it, you almost feel embarrassed to talk about it, like we have failed at something. Once I began telling people about it, the support we received and the magnitude of prayers being lifted up for us was overwhelming, and several women revealed they had experienced miscarriages as well, which I would probably have never discovered had I not shared my own. I felt more at peace because I didn't have to hide anything anymore, and I could allow myself to start the healing process.
On Wednesday, I didn't feel as weighed down by it as I had the day before. I think having everything out in the open and knowing that people had been and were continuing to pray for us was what helped push me to press on. I didn't cry at the drop of a hat like I had the past couple of days. I was able to smile at things a little more. I was trying to take in and soak up the good and positive moments with my family, reminding myself that life goes on and things will slowly get better, day by day.
*The next part of my story may not be for the faint of heart.* It was the middle of the day Wednesday that I went to the bathroom, and something felt a little off. I barely pushed down as if I was pushing out a baby, and out slid something larger than normal. It felt similar to birthing a baby, but on a much, much smaller scale, and without the pain. In fact, I hadn't felt any pain at all. I wondered if it was a very large clot, since I had been passing small clots on and off for the last several days. I examined what had passed to find that it was a good-size piece of tissue, probably three to four inches in length, and judging by the looks, I believe it was the placenta. For the remainder of the day, I barely bled, which was very different than what I had been experiencing in the days leading up to it. When nothing else happened and my bleeding continued to be minimal, I felt I could safely assume that I had passed the tiny gestational sac without realizing it (I most likely mistook it for a clot), and the placenta had come later on. I was surprised I had experienced no pain and no excessive bleeding leading up to it. But it did give me the closure I felt I needed.
When I woke up that next Monday morning, I realized after a little while that it was the first morning the miscarriage hadn't been the very first thing on my mind. I didn't know how to feel about that. I knew I wasn't forgetting about it; I'm quite sure no one ever forgets these kinds of experiences. If nothing else, the pain forever etches into our souls, like an ever-present scar that you don't constantly look at but notice from time to time and remember exactly how it got there. I will never forget my fourth baby, who shared my body and my blood, who was a part of me and part of Matt, but who never even got to have a heartbeat or take a breath, and who will never have a name.
I believe one day, when God calls me home, I will meet this child that never got to have a life on earth, but who will have existed blissfully in heaven with no worries, no pain, not a care in the world, being held in the arms of Jesus. And I imagine when this day comes, my child will be saying, "Here I am, Mommy. You don't have to be sad anymore. I've been here all along."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)