Between 3 & 4, there was a 3.5.
A pregnancy.
And a miscarriage.
Very close family and only a handful of my closest friends
know this. Not because I was embarrassed
to talk about it. Not because the
subject is taboo. But because I was
D E V A S T A T E D. I couldn’t talk about it without bursting into tears and I HATE crying. I especially hate crying in front of people. So, I didn’t talk about it. I told those closest to me who I talk to on the regular and that was it.
D E V A S T A T E D. I couldn’t talk about it without bursting into tears and I HATE crying. I especially hate crying in front of people. So, I didn’t talk about it. I told those closest to me who I talk to on the regular and that was it.
It wasn’t just a simple miscarriage either. As if there is any such thing as a simple
miscarriage. What I mean is, it was a long, drawn out, roller coaster of emotions. Here’s how it
played out.
It was spring 2014.
The weather was getting warm and I was pasty white. I needed some color before attempting to put
on any type of summer clothes for fear of blinding people with my skin. I decided I would hop in the tanning bed
after work. I know, I know, choosing a
cancer bed is not the smartest choice but I get desperate when the sun pops out
after hibernating all winter and I am suddenly suffocating in my winter
clothes. (Like I have no idea spring is
going to happen and don’t have all winter to prepare.) It just so happened the same day the sun
arrived, my period did not. Assuming it
was just late but not wanting to take any chances, I decided to stop at the
drugstore first and buy a pregnancy test.
You know, just to confirm and put my mind at ease. I run into Walgreen’s and purchase a
test. When I leave, I realize I don’t
want to drive all the way home just for the test to prove negative then drive
all the way back to tan so I stop at the first place I see with a bathroom –
McDonald’s. I run in, pee on the stick
and wait a few minutes for the single line to pop up so I can get on with my
day. But instead, that single little
line brought a friend. My jaw hit that nasty McDonald’s bathroom floor.
My first thought was, “I can’t believe I just found out I’m pregnant in a McDonald’s bathroom.” My very next thought was, “My husband is going to KILL me.” The next chain of thoughts flooded my mind. Holy shit. I’m pregnant. I’m going to have FOUR kids. Who in their right mind has FOUR kids? My husband only wanted two. It took me five years to talk him into a third. The third has been a colicky nightmare which further convinced him he was DONE having kids. How in the HELL am I going to tell him I’m pregnant?!? What am I going to do??? It’s hard to believe a 35-year-old woman who has been married for 10 years had these thoughts going through her head but there I was. I was freaking the freak out.
I drove home in a daze with my mind racing a million miles per hour. I turned down my street and drove right past my house. I can’t go home. I can’t tell him yet. I need advice. I’ll stop by a friend’s house and talk it out. I drove by 8 different friends’ houses and not one of them was home. Reluctantly, I headed home. I pulled in my driveway and went inside. I don’t remember saying a whole lot to Kevin that day or evening. I felt like a teenager trying to build up the courage to tell my parents I was pregnant. I didn’t know how to drop this bomb on him. So, I googled it. The first thing that popped up were these cute little onesies that say, “I’m going to be a big brother.” I started to feel the first little bit of excitement but that quickly washed away as I thought about telling Kevin.
After what seemed like HOURS of pondering how I’m going to tell him, I finally just handed him my phone with the picture of the onesie on it and said, “What do you think about getting this for #3’s Easter basket?” He looked at it, nodded, said, “sure, that’s fine” then did a double take, enlarged the picture and looked at me with the most shocked/scared/pissed off look I’ve ever seen on his face. For unknown reasons, I started uncontrollably laughing. He said, “Is this for real?” I said yes. He didn’t believe me because I’m still laughing like a lunatic. He asked the same question about 37 more times then went radio silent for the next two days.
My first thought was, “I can’t believe I just found out I’m pregnant in a McDonald’s bathroom.” My very next thought was, “My husband is going to KILL me.” The next chain of thoughts flooded my mind. Holy shit. I’m pregnant. I’m going to have FOUR kids. Who in their right mind has FOUR kids? My husband only wanted two. It took me five years to talk him into a third. The third has been a colicky nightmare which further convinced him he was DONE having kids. How in the HELL am I going to tell him I’m pregnant?!? What am I going to do??? It’s hard to believe a 35-year-old woman who has been married for 10 years had these thoughts going through her head but there I was. I was freaking the freak out.
I drove home in a daze with my mind racing a million miles per hour. I turned down my street and drove right past my house. I can’t go home. I can’t tell him yet. I need advice. I’ll stop by a friend’s house and talk it out. I drove by 8 different friends’ houses and not one of them was home. Reluctantly, I headed home. I pulled in my driveway and went inside. I don’t remember saying a whole lot to Kevin that day or evening. I felt like a teenager trying to build up the courage to tell my parents I was pregnant. I didn’t know how to drop this bomb on him. So, I googled it. The first thing that popped up were these cute little onesies that say, “I’m going to be a big brother.” I started to feel the first little bit of excitement but that quickly washed away as I thought about telling Kevin.
After what seemed like HOURS of pondering how I’m going to tell him, I finally just handed him my phone with the picture of the onesie on it and said, “What do you think about getting this for #3’s Easter basket?” He looked at it, nodded, said, “sure, that’s fine” then did a double take, enlarged the picture and looked at me with the most shocked/scared/pissed off look I’ve ever seen on his face. For unknown reasons, I started uncontrollably laughing. He said, “Is this for real?” I said yes. He didn’t believe me because I’m still laughing like a lunatic. He asked the same question about 37 more times then went radio silent for the next two days.
Two days later, he finally spoke. He
expressed his concerns. I’m never going to get a truck. You
will still get a truck. We can’t all fit in my truck. We
currently can’t all fit in your car and we’re doing just fine. We have a van. We’ll drive that when we’re all together. We
don’t have a double stroller. We can buy a double stroller. Where
will the baby sleep? We will get bunk beds and two kids will
share a room. Siblings do this every day
in America. They’ll survive.
Once he voiced all of his concerns and I guess I gave
plausible answers, he took a deep breath and said, “So we’re really having a
baby.” And he smiled. He SMILED!
We decided to keep the news on the down low until after the
first ultrasound as we did with the other three babies. I ordered the onesie I sprung the news
with. We started making plans and
figuring out how everything would work logistically. At my first doctor’s appointment we scheduled
the ultrasound at 9 weeks. We got more
excited. I counted down the days until the
appointment was finally here. Never once
did it cross my mind anything would be wrong.
I just couldn’t wait to see the baby and that tiny heartbeat and then
rush home to announce it to the older kids.
Except there wasn’t a heartbeat.
I could tell right away. The ultrasound technician just kept moving the wand around and not saying anything. As the seconds ticked by, I could feel my eyes welling with tears. Kevin looked at me confused. I just shook my head no. He was still confused. What felt like hours later but was likely only minutes, if not seconds, the technician looked at me. At this point I was full on crying. She said, “Don’t panic yet, let me get the doctor. It could just be too early to tell.”
I could tell right away. The ultrasound technician just kept moving the wand around and not saying anything. As the seconds ticked by, I could feel my eyes welling with tears. Kevin looked at me confused. I just shook my head no. He was still confused. What felt like hours later but was likely only minutes, if not seconds, the technician looked at me. At this point I was full on crying. She said, “Don’t panic yet, let me get the doctor. It could just be too early to tell.”
But I knew.
She left the room and was back with the doctor within
minutes. He looked things over and said
it’s possible we miscalculated, I just wasn’t as far along as we thought. He sent me for blood work and said we would do
a second round in 24 hours. If my
numbers went up that was a good sign. If
they went down, not a good sign. Off to
the lab I went, crying through the whole process. We drove home without saying a word. I went to our room and cried most of the
night, unable to pull it together.
The next day was a blur until it was time to get more blood work done. I went through the process again. The results would come back the next day. The next day was Good Friday. I called the doctor’s office multiple times begging for results. Finally, the results were in. My numbers went UP!!!
I was so excited and relieved but still terrified. The doctor told me that’s a good sign but not to get my hopes up yet. It could either mean I was not as far along as expected OR it could mean my body just hadn’t registered the miscarriage yet. He said we should know for sure by the end of the weekend if it was a miscarriage – meaning my body would reject the fetus in the next day or two if it was. If it didn’t, then we would do yet another round of blood work on Monday.
The next day was a blur until it was time to get more blood work done. I went through the process again. The results would come back the next day. The next day was Good Friday. I called the doctor’s office multiple times begging for results. Finally, the results were in. My numbers went UP!!!
I was so excited and relieved but still terrified. The doctor told me that’s a good sign but not to get my hopes up yet. It could either mean I was not as far along as expected OR it could mean my body just hadn’t registered the miscarriage yet. He said we should know for sure by the end of the weekend if it was a miscarriage – meaning my body would reject the fetus in the next day or two if it was. If it didn’t, then we would do yet another round of blood work on Monday.
It was a very long torturous Easter weekend. I really couldn’t focus on anything except
worrying about the baby. Finally, Monday
arrives with no sign of miscarriage. I
was elated. This HAS to be a good sign. I went back in for more
blood work. Tuesday afternoon they call
with results.
They want to see us in person.
Not a good sign. At
all.
We go back to the doctor.
He sits us down in his office and tells us my numbers dropped
dramatically from Friday. What?
How could that be? They had gone
up before… Then he said the 2
letters I did not want to hear.
D&C
D&C stands for dilation and curettage which is a
procedure to remove tissue from the inside of the uterus. In this case, the tissue was my baby. I freaked out. I told him I was not ready for that. What if there was a chance the numbers were
wrong? What if they ended up mistakenly
aborting my living baby? Couldn’t we
just wait and so more blood work in a day or two? Just to be SURE?
I was in denial and was convinced they were wrong. The doctor agreed to wait and do another
round of blood work in 2 days. So, we
did. Three days later my worst fear was
confirmed.
The numbers bottomed out.
There was still no heartbeat.
The baby had died.
But like my mind and my heart, my body wasn’t letting
go. We had to schedule the D&C.
At this point I’m hyperventilating as the realization is
finally hitting me. They scheduled the
D&C for the next day. I don’t
remember scheduling it or leaving the office or driving home. I just remember crying for hours. I went straight to bed and eventually cried
myself to sleep.
The next day we got the kids off to school and headed to the
hospital for the surgery. I was cried
out. I had grieved the death of my baby
and now was mentally preparing for a surgery.
My grief shifted to nervousness.
I wouldn’t let myself think about the baby. I just kept telling myself I had to go in for
a medical procedure and put myself in a very clinical mindset.
We checked in and were shown to a room. The nurse asked me to change into a hospital gown. Then she says, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” My eyes immediately started welling with tears. She completely wiped my clinical mentality out of my brain with those 6 words. Now I’m thinking of the baby again.
I try to put the thought out of my head and focus on the surgery. I get changed, get situated in the bed and another nurse comes in to start my IV. When she finishes, she holds my arm and repeats the same words as the first nurse with tears in her eyes. I can’t even say thank you because I’m in tears again. This process repeated itself with the next dozen people who walked through the door. They were all kind and compassionate and heartfelt when they said those words – which I can appreciate now – but at the time I just wanted them to stop. I was tired of crying. I was tired of people feeling sorry for me. I was tired of seeing that pity look in their eyes. I just wanted the anesthesiologist to come in and knock me out.
We checked in and were shown to a room. The nurse asked me to change into a hospital gown. Then she says, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” My eyes immediately started welling with tears. She completely wiped my clinical mentality out of my brain with those 6 words. Now I’m thinking of the baby again.
I try to put the thought out of my head and focus on the surgery. I get changed, get situated in the bed and another nurse comes in to start my IV. When she finishes, she holds my arm and repeats the same words as the first nurse with tears in her eyes. I can’t even say thank you because I’m in tears again. This process repeated itself with the next dozen people who walked through the door. They were all kind and compassionate and heartfelt when they said those words – which I can appreciate now – but at the time I just wanted them to stop. I was tired of crying. I was tired of people feeling sorry for me. I was tired of seeing that pity look in their eyes. I just wanted the anesthesiologist to come in and knock me out.
But instead, another lady walks in. I don't remember her name. I don't remember her job title. I just remember her sitting down and saying, "I'm so sorry for your loss. This is going to be a very difficult conversation but since we are a Catholic hospital, we need to know if you would like your baby to be baptized."
WHAT?!?
I was NOT expecting this conversation, NOT expecting THAT question. I burst into tears and just shook my head yes. Then she asks what we would like done with the remains. At this point, I. CAN. NOT. EVEN. DEAL. She explains the hospital has a baby cemetery where they bury most of the miscarried babies but some mothers prefer to have the remains released to them to have their own private burial. Seeing as how I was only in my first trimester we opted for the baby cemetery. I just could not even believe I was being asked these questions and having to make these decisions. It just made it all the more real and all the more devastating.
Finally, it was time for my surgery. I never thought I'd welcome sedation as much I did in that moment.
The surgery went well without any complications. As I was coming out of anesthesia and fighting through recovery (always the worst part of surgery for me) a lady walks in and hands me a seashell and a poem. She tells me the seashell held my baby as they baptized him or her and the poem was about the grief of losing a child.
Cue an epic meltdown in drastic proportions HERE.
To date, this was obviously one of the absolute worst days of my life.
We finally left the hospital. We grieved our lost baby. We tried to move on.
I always think about what it would've been like to have that 3.5. Would it have been a girl or a boy? Was there something wrong with the baby and that's why God chose to take him or her back? Is it something I did wrong? I don't know the answers to these questions but I do believe some day I will. I believe I will get to meet my baby on the other side when it's my time.
In the meantime, I can't help but realize, if God had not called that baby home, we would not have our #4. And I can not even imagine life without that little guy.
It was just a few short months after my miscarriage when we found out we were expecting #4. Our rainbow baby. Although he'll never replace the baby we lost, he was definitely what we needed to help us through that dark time. He was indeed a godsend.
I also can't help but think about all of the other mothers out there that have gone through this same difficult situation. Or worse situations...being further along, having a stillborn baby or losing a child. I think of the mothers that were never blessed with a rainbow baby. The ones who have to deal with infertility, multiple miscarriages or infant loss. My heart breaks for these mommas because I only know a slight portion of what they're going through and just that little slice of pain is something I don't wish upon my worst enemy.
If you're the praying type, please send one or two up for the 1 in 4 moms that has had to endure pregnancy & infant loss. It's definitely not a club any woman wants to be part of and anyone who has been through this could surely use the extra prayers.
WHAT?!?
I was NOT expecting this conversation, NOT expecting THAT question. I burst into tears and just shook my head yes. Then she asks what we would like done with the remains. At this point, I. CAN. NOT. EVEN. DEAL. She explains the hospital has a baby cemetery where they bury most of the miscarried babies but some mothers prefer to have the remains released to them to have their own private burial. Seeing as how I was only in my first trimester we opted for the baby cemetery. I just could not even believe I was being asked these questions and having to make these decisions. It just made it all the more real and all the more devastating.
Finally, it was time for my surgery. I never thought I'd welcome sedation as much I did in that moment.
The surgery went well without any complications. As I was coming out of anesthesia and fighting through recovery (always the worst part of surgery for me) a lady walks in and hands me a seashell and a poem. She tells me the seashell held my baby as they baptized him or her and the poem was about the grief of losing a child.
Cue an epic meltdown in drastic proportions HERE.
To date, this was obviously one of the absolute worst days of my life.
We finally left the hospital. We grieved our lost baby. We tried to move on.
I always think about what it would've been like to have that 3.5. Would it have been a girl or a boy? Was there something wrong with the baby and that's why God chose to take him or her back? Is it something I did wrong? I don't know the answers to these questions but I do believe some day I will. I believe I will get to meet my baby on the other side when it's my time.
In the meantime, I can't help but realize, if God had not called that baby home, we would not have our #4. And I can not even imagine life without that little guy.
It was just a few short months after my miscarriage when we found out we were expecting #4. Our rainbow baby. Although he'll never replace the baby we lost, he was definitely what we needed to help us through that dark time. He was indeed a godsend.
I also can't help but think about all of the other mothers out there that have gone through this same difficult situation. Or worse situations...being further along, having a stillborn baby or losing a child. I think of the mothers that were never blessed with a rainbow baby. The ones who have to deal with infertility, multiple miscarriages or infant loss. My heart breaks for these mommas because I only know a slight portion of what they're going through and just that little slice of pain is something I don't wish upon my worst enemy.
If you're the praying type, please send one or two up for the 1 in 4 moms that has had to endure pregnancy & infant loss. It's definitely not a club any woman wants to be part of and anyone who has been through this could surely use the extra prayers.
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