October is Infant & Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month, the internet tells me, and specifically October 15th is Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Images continue to pop up on my Facebook news feed of tiny footprints and statistics claiming bravely "I am 1 in 4." A quick Google search confirms this statistic and I can't help but think, that is an awful lot of broken hearts. Nearly 1 in 4 women who are promised the greatest gift in the entire world experience the crippling agony of having that gift stolen away again. For something so common, and potentially devastating, it doesn't get talked about much.
I've started writing this post at least ten times, probably more. I have drafts saved on my blogger account that I've never posted, either because they were too long, or not perfect enough, or perhaps I felt they were too self indulgent. But I can't keep starting this post and never finishing it, because it's important to talk about these things, even if to make at least one other person feel as though they aren't alone. I can't keep waiting for the exact right words, because they will never come.
Our journey to our current pregnancy went a little differently than we were expecting. We got pregnant with both Oliver and Theodore very easily, and I'm grateful for that every day. I know there are many women who struggle, and hope, and pray every day for the same opportunity I was afforded, and I was lucky enough to experience it twice. I will never take that for granted again.
No, the baby kicking away beneath my button-up shirt right now required a much longer, much harder road. We decided to start trying again in May of 2014, expecting that all of our children would be around two years apart. After three anxious months, our efforts resulted in a positive pregnancy test, and a lot of jumping and screaming and smiling. In my pink and fuzzy state of nothing-ever-goes-wrong naivete, it never even occurred to me that things might be different this time. And about a week later I experienced my first miscarriage. The bleeding started in the middle of the night, and we saw a doctor late the next morning when it didn't seem to stop. A blood test, a few days of agonizing cramps and waiting, and another blood test confirmed that I had, in fact, lost the baby.
I've never cried so much, or felt more destroyed, than throughout those days and the weeks that followed. I never knew a pain like this. I felt like I wasn't someone that this sort of thing happened to, like I was living some kind of horrible nightmare and that I'd eventually wake up. My mental health, which had already been in a precarious state at the best of times, plummeted quite dramatically after that. For months I dealt with overwhelming grief and confusion, I felt ashamed and embarrassed, and miserably alone. I didn't tell anyone, except a few very close friends, throughout the entire ordeal.
When I'm struggling - really struggling - with my mental health, I have a tendency to pull away. I speak and act as though I'd really rather be alone, when in reality I'm actually screaming that I'm just lonely. The few close friends who knew were absolutely amazing and supportive, watched my children for medical appointments and ultrasounds. But the reality is that the true theme, and real emotion that resonated throughout the entire ordeal was loneliness. And self blame. What did I do wrong? I was stuck in a miserable spiral and was so afraid that nothing truly wonderful would ever happen again. I suddenly felt like my magical powers, my indestructibility, had fallen away. I was vulnerable now.
The doctor told us to wait at least two months before trying again, which we did out of necessity. I wasn't in any condition to be making decisions, let alone enduring the stress that can go hand-in-hand with trying to conceive. Matt took a lot of work off to help me cope, as many days I couldn't even get out of bed anymore. When we felt as though I had stabilized a bit, we started discussing trying again. Matt expressed how he missed me so terribly, and that it was so hard to watch me fighting this endless internal battle day-in and day-out. He told me that if having a healthy pregnancy would right this wrong, then we should work toward it diligently and urgently. He wanted healing for me, and if that was the only way to find vindication, then why wait?
We found a sort-of almost peace for me before we started trying again. Two months later, after a grueling week of anxiety and an agonizing internal struggle I found the courage to take another pregnancy test, with my best friend by my side, and when it came up positive my heart both leaped and sank, simultaneously. I was so excited to see a successful result, but at the same time overwhelmingly terrified of being so susceptible again. I was suddenly vulnerable to heartache once more, and it was almost more than I could bare.
This time, when I shared the news with Matt, there was no jumping and screaming and smiling. There were two shaking hands holding out a positive pregnancy test, and two eyes filled with crippling fear and distress. I couldn't afford to get invested in this pregnancy, now that I knew it could be stolen away so easily. How long could joy really last? I simply couldn't allow it.
With each passing week, I took a maternity photo, and wondered whether it would be the last one I would get to take. And with each passing week, I felt a little bit safer, like maybe this baby might stick around this time. The first couple of months were fraught with nervous breakdowns, panic attacks, full-body sobbing, panicked doctor's appointments, and the heaviest fear. Around 10 weeks I allowed myself to get used to the idea that maybe this baby was a keeper. It was early December, almost Christmas, and we had a cute pregnancy announcement planned for Christmas day. We bought the craft supplies to make it, and I actually let my guard down. We were almost out of the woods.
Just before the 11 week milestone, I started bleeding again. On the drive to the hospital I was essentially catatonic. The phrase "I can't believe this is happening again," repeated over and over in my head. "I won't survive this one," I told myself. "I couldn't possibly."
I remember lying on the hospital table as the doctor looked for a heartbeat and couldn't find one, though she sweetly told me it was a little early anyway so it didn't necessarily mean anything. I remember hours of anxious waiting in the afternoon for the hospital to call with an ultrasound appointment. I remember a tearful drive to Boundary Trails that afternoon, and the longest ultrasound I have ever experienced in my entire life. I remember using the bathroom at the hospital and seeing no blood for the first time and thinking "Hey, maybe it's over. Maybe everything is fine."
The girl left me in the room for the a moment so I could get dressed, and when she returned she told me that the pregnancy was over, and that I could take as much time as I needed. I didn't want any time. I put on my coat and rushed out of the room. I saw Matt's hopeful face in the waiting room and shook my head at him as I whizzed past. He followed me to the car, where we sat in silence. I was silent the entire drive home. I was absolutely devastated, and at the time, it felt like it was beyond repair.
We shared the news with a couple of close friends, who again reached out and supported me so very beautifully. This miscarriage was much more painful than the first one, and I'd even go so far as to say more painful than labour. With Oliver, I laboured for 24 straight unmedicated hours, and compared to this, it was a cake walk. I spent hours in the hot shower, days with endless contractions, and weeks with crippling cramps and seemingly endless bleeding, all with no prize to show for it in the end. On top of the physical pain was the overwhelming emotional pain and disbelief, and the extreme weight of grief pressed down harder on me with each passing day.
I was still dealing with the aftermath on Christmas day, through present opening, through Christmas gatherings, through innocent friends and family asking, "So, is it time for number three yet?" not knowing how piercing their words really were. I just couldn't bring myself to share my experiences with the world, it felt too personal, too painful, too raw, and like the biggest failures of my entire life.
We decided that we had enough. We made the decision that we would not try again for a baby until we no longer needed it. We waited five months this time, to fully and completely recover from the tragedies behind us. I started seeing an incredible therapist who helped me find healing, I started making changes to my life that had nothing to do with getting pregnant again. I took the time to enjoy the beauty that was my life with two amazing boys, and my incredible husband. After a couple of months I wasn't crying anymore, and a couple of months after that I was laughing again. I realized that no matter what happened now, this was always going to be enough for me. I felt secure again, I felt motivated again, I felt hope again.
We started trying in May of this year, and in June I got that beautiful positive pregnancy test. I felt nothing but resounding joy. I was perhaps a little reluctant, as my heart was now surrounded with armour that would likely never be dismantled, but I felt peace. It felt right. Around 8 weeks we went in for a novelty ultrasound at Babymoon, and I got to see our beautiful peanut for the first time. Healthy, and strong, and squirming away. I cried tears of joy and breathed a sigh of relief. I finally fell in love, and whispered, "You're not going anywhere."
And here I am. Nearly 25 weeks along, feeling movement every hour on the hour, feeling calm and certain about the joy that is ahead. I didn't want to share my journey until I had a happy ending to go along with it, though I suppose I haven't shared my story until now for a number of reasons. First, I feared people might blame me for the tragedies that happened. I know that sounds crazy, but I think because I was blaming myself, I felt like others might feel the same way. Second, I worried that people might not count my pregnancies. Neither were very long, but the fact that I didn't get to experience kicks or heartbeats doesn't mean they didn't mean something very real to me, and I didn't want anyone to diminish that fact. And third, there was a tiny part of me that wasn't quite sure whether this pregnancy was my happy ending. There is always this tiny little spark of fear deep inside me, every time a sad story comes up on Facebook, or is told to me in passing, and a little bit of doubt that says, "You're not out of the woods yet." I feel like sharing my story now will be healing for me, because I'm declaring to the world that this will be my happy ending. This is my happy ending.
And that, friends, is the story of how we found our way to the little pumpkin we currently treasure so dearly. That's the story I hoped I'd never have to tell, but it's our true story. It was without a doubt the hardest year of my entire life, and it shattered me, and strengthened me, and taught me things I'd have never learned any other way. But I'm ready to share it with you now. It's time. And my hope is that in some small way, someone out there reading this found a little bit of healing in knowing that they aren't alone in their struggle, and that there is hope to be found. Miscarriage shouldn't be so lonely, and if I could do it over again, I'd have shared my struggle with everyone I loved and gathered them around in one big mountain of strength, but I was too afraid. I am 1 in 4. Twice.
But I'm not afraid anymore.
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