Facing the Past: My Story of Loss

I think it’s time for me to talk about something. I’ve been putting it off since the day I started this blog. It’s been easy to skip because it’s not funny, not in the slightest. But it’s been almost a year since I got my positive pregnancy test last year (with a subsequent miscarriage), and I feel like it might be time to air things out. Reconcile so I can move forward.

WARNING: If you’re here for humor, today is a bummer day. I highly recommend you skip this post and move on to the one from yesterday, which is where I create a soap opera staring my cervical mucus. Rotten Tomatoes gave it two thumbs up, or something.   

Why talk about this now? Well in addition to feeling like it might do me some good to take stock of where I stand today versus August 2009, I’ve also had some very dear bloggy friends experience miscarriages lately too. I won’t say who they are, but they’ve been loyal Bleeps for a long time. I love you ladies, and my heart is with you. I hope that be sharing my story of recovery, it gives you some peace in your own.

Thanks to Clomid, and maybe some acupuncture, I was able to conceive last summer. It was my fourth pregnancy, and given that the prior three had all ended in miscarriage I was understandably nervous.

Nervous may not be the right word. I was freaked out while simultaneously detached. Every pregnancy before had ended spontaneously, usually with an emotional trip to the emergency room after surprise bleeding. I’d never been able to make it to the point the seeing-the-heartbeat-for-the-first-time appointment.

From the moment I got that positive test, I became a TPI (a joking term in the Infertile community, Toilet Paper Inspector). I prayed for there not to be even a speck of blood, for my little Pinto to stay stuck up there. I tried desperately to not get my hopes up, to not get too attaches, but every day I didn’t end up in the hospital I began to believe more and more this could be The One.

My HCG tests were coming along nicely. HCG, if this is a new term to you, is also referred to as the “pregnancy hormone”. It’s common for someone with recurrent miscarriage (like me) to have this level tests routinely in the early stages of pregnancy. What you’re looking for is to see the HCG count double approximately every 48 hours. My numbers were doubling nicely, and my doctor backed off on the tests and scheduled us for our first ultrasound.

Waiting for the ultrasound was agony. While in reality it was only about a two week wait (it was to occur at about 7.5 weeks), it might have been six months. However, I had some reassurances in the changes my body was going through: waking up to pee early in the morning, sore and growing breasts, food aversions and cravings, and having to pee ALL THE TIME. I took comfort in that my body was doing normal things.

I also took comfort in that this was my first pregnancy with my Reproductive Endocrinologist (aka RE, aka Fertility Doctor). I was in good hands, was doing everything right. I was taking progesterone to support the uterus, avoiding soft cheeses and hair dye.

Adam was amazing. He watched over me like a protective male lion. Indulged my cravings, rubbed my back. We tried not to jinx ourselves by getting too far ahead, but day-by-day little things crept into our vocabulary. Adam gave the pregnancy a nickname. We both talked about baby names. I thought about how I’d like to decorate the nursery.

As the day approached, I was confident we’d see an amazing little heartbeat on that monitor. Friends were telling us, this is The One. And I agreed. After four years, this was our shot.

On the day of the appointment, I had Adam ready with the video camera. We wanted to capture the first moments of that beautiful heartbeat forever. Dr. H told us our estimated due date, talked about our game plan for my medical treatment, and then it was time for the ultrasound. Adam whipped out the camera, and I held my breath. Dr. H looked and looked, and was silent for a long time. I held my breath.

I knew.

Adam still waited patiently with the camera. I finally had to whisper to him, “Adam please turn the camera off”. Dr. H told us the news. Two sacs. No heartbeats.

I am normally a very straight faced person. Right at that moment, I crumbled. An entire lifetime of change came crashing now in a second. This future that Adam and I had hoped for so much for so long had faded in an instant.

We sat together in the office and cried. We texted the few people who knew on the way home. Shock and disbelief rolled in. Dr. H had told us to come back in a week to check again, but I knew in my heart it was over.

I took the next day off of work. Mostly to play video games and sit silent on the sofa. Adam and I ordered pizza, we played Mario Party. We drove through In and Out, and played Monopoly.

We were in shock, on autopilot.

To be honest, as crystal clear as I remember the moment in the Dr. H’s office, I don’t remember much of the following weeks. Numbness. Like I was on ice.

Our next visit to Dr. H’s office the following week did not improve the situation. One of the sacs was deforming, possibly taking over the other sac. There was concern of a molar pregnancy. Dr. H recommended either a pill that would bring on miscarriage or a D&C.

I choose the D&C. Because I didn’t want to face passing it on my own again. I couldn’t handle that again. And also, I think I wanted to clean house. I was angry at my uterus, and just wanted a fresh start. I wanted my uterus to be as empty as my heart felt.

I had prayed that I wouldn’t see blood before the D&C, and I got my wish. My body carried on as though things were hunky-dory. I think it is a little shared fact that one of the most difficult aspects of miscarriage, at least for me, was the continuing pregnancy symptoms even after the pregnancy itself has failed. We did another blood test at the time of the first ultrasound, and my HCG levels had continued to grow. I felt more pregnant than ever, symptomatically speaking.

The D&C happened at a little over 10 weeks, at the end of August 2009. There’s not much to say about it, things went as planned. Dr. H was concerned once again that it looked molar coming out, but we later found out through pathology that it wasn’t (no cause was found). If anyone is curious about my D&C (procedure, recovery, aftermath) just let me know and we can talk more.

And that was it. It was over. Adam and I were left back at the beginning, in a manner of speaking. Now came the long process of healing. And we took it one day at a time.

I’m not the type of person usually to talk about my feelings. It’s difficult to even write about them. I just process internally for the most part, and whatever is left over that needs to come out, I share with Adam.
I could see more and more after every miscarriage how infertility could drive a marriage apart. And, after every miscarriage, I could see how Adam and I belonged together. We clung to one another.

The healing happened little by little. But here’s why I’m sharing this with you now, especially to my friends who are experiencing loss now. Most of these stories end with a traditional happy ending. How many times have I heard “oh I had a miscarriage, then I got pregnant and everything was perfect” or “my friend had 3 miscarriages but then she did X, Y, and Z and now she has three children”.

It seems, for a miscarriage story to end happily, there has to be a baby that eventually became. And obviously I still hope and believe that is my future, as well as for you too, my dear Bleeps. But there can be a happy ending of peace, strength, and perseverance too.

Perseverance is the word I focus on. It’s not a matter of waiting for the pain to end in order to move forward. It’s moving forward in spite of it. Endure. Endure. Endure.

I saw a special on Hoda Kotb once, where she was talking about recovery from breast cancer. She said she focused on the word “Forward”. She’d say it like a mantra, “forward, forward, forward”. I think of that too now.

Forward. I move forward.

Some days it was as a snail’s pace. Some days it was despite a heart so heavy that I could barely breathe.

Forward. I pressed on.

And every once in a while I’d look back, and take stock of where I was and how far I’d come. But I knew that I would be ok. Because I had survived it three times before, and I always was ok.

The same? No, I was never the same. But surviving. Enduring. I was always ok.

And I learned. I learned so much about myself. I learned that I was stronger than I ever thought possible.
That I could learn to accept that God sometimes has a different plan than us (though I still might be angry as hell about it). That I could forgive my body for letting me down. That even if I was broken, I could heal. Like a scar, heal stronger than before.

Anyone who has had their heart broken, I mean really obliterated, and is worth their salt, would walk away with these same truths. It hurts, it sucks, its unfair, you did nothing to deserve this, you are angry and have a right to be. Own those feelings. Don’t let anyone try to take those feelings away from you with a simple “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be yet” or “God as a plan”. Just take those feelings, and roll them around inside of you. Learn what you can from them. Keep them there as long as you need them.

Then let them go.

I don’t know why bad things happen to good people. All I know is that I can’t change the past, I can only learn from it and use it to make me a better, stronger person.

What’s my bottom line here? Everyone heals differently. Take your time, and take it easy on yourself. Allow yourself to be pissed off or hurt or sad, without apologies. And then take peace that you’ll be ok. You have your partner, and you have the future.

I don’t know what the future holds for me. Hopefully a lot more laughs. Hopefully I’ll get my chance at The One. And hopefully by sharing this story, I can face my past with strength and move on. To a different outcome. To a different future.