I've just learned that October is an "Awareness" month for pregnancy/infant/child loss. I wrote a birth story for my first baby that I celebrate and share openly. But my second pregnancy ended abruptly, unexpectedly and I don't have a birth story. October 8th was my due date for my second baby. There hasn't been a day I don't think about the baby. I don't know what to say or do. When I was pregnant with Jack I read tons of birth stories. I still love to read them. When I had my miscarriage, I looked for those stories too, but there were far fewer. I wanted to know what to expect. The doctor didn't have very much to say. Apparently, it's very common but she didn't even have a pamphlet...they had them for all kinds of things: breastfeeding, formula, nutrition, vaccines, STDS, birth plans, but no miscarriage information. So I googled. And by the grace of God, a few women reached out and shared their stories. Those stories still resonate in my heart today and truly truly were what I could hold onto as I was going through it. I am beyond thankful for these women sharing the details of their experience. I'm also thankful for the strangers that shared theirs online too. Since I never got to meet this baby, I don't really get a lot of opportunities to talk about the baby. I actually appreciate when people ask, even though I don't have much to say. So I'll share my birth story, for myself and anybody who needs to read it.
I found out I was pregnant on February 1st. I took a test by myself when I first woke up, went to the mall, bought a salad I had a strong craving for, and bought a shirt for Jack that said "Awesome Big Brother." I texted my husband and asked if I could come hug him before work. He was annoyed because he was busy planning and I think he was in the middle of doing his devotionals. I went in and handed him the pregnancy test. His sour mood immediately lifted and he started smiling and giggling. He covered me in hugs and kisses and I went to my job. I sent a picture of Jack's t-shirt to my mom and my best friend and listened to their reactions as they opened the text, squealing and screaming. I followed up my text to my mom with a request not to tell anyone, but she had already told her boss, who was sitting next to her. I was excited. Our circle was excited. I've never really jived with that not telling anybody until 12 weeks thing because I'm terrible at keeping a secret and I don't like the rationale behind it, so we announced it publicly.
We'd had an early ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy and the due date. The night before my routine appointment to hear the heartbeat, I felt extremely nervous. I would be going alone and it was going to be the first OB/GYN appointment that I would ever attend without my husband, who was taking care of our son who was sick. I told Chris I couldn't shake the fear that there wouldn't be a heartbeat even though there was no evidence to point toward that. So he, Jack, and I prayed and we ascribed my feeling to my persistent irrational anxieties.
The next day, I went to work and excitedly shared that I would get to hear my baby's heartbeat that day. I remember it was International Women's Day and was feeling super girl-powery, baking a human and all. I talked to my best friend on the way and reiterated what I'd shared with Chris about my fears and she also prayed and reassured me that everything would be ok. I cheerfully texted Chris while I was there, noting that the doctor had asked about him. I remember she was wearing a small gold necklace and a bright orange top. She asked me the typical questions and started the routine ultrasound while making small talk. Her voice got quieter and slower and I knew it before she said it. I stared at her necklace. She tried different angles. While I was staring at her necklace, I could see she was holding her breath. Her chest wasn't moving. Her jaw was clenched. She removed the ultrasound probe and I could hear her take a deep breath before she said "I'm so sorry, but there's no heartbeat." I broke into silent tears and she hugged me and then left the room. I called Chris and told him through tears and I still remember hearing him scream "NO. NO. Noooo." and he told me that he would come get me. The doctor came back in and everything was a blur. I met her in her office and put Chris on speakerphone while she gave us options. She told us to take our time and offered to give us additional ultrasounds before we made our final decision. She was kind and gentle, but she stopped using words like "baby" and words like "tissue" and "pregnancy" and I wanted to scream at her. I drove myself home because I didn't want to worry about my car. I couldn't stop crying and my toddler came up to me and starting singing a song from Daniel Tiger: "It's ok...to be sad...sometimes...little by little...you'll feel better again." I felt love and appreciation and grief and pain.
We told our friends and family and people cried and screamed with us and for us and for our baby. I became uncharacteristically reclusive. As a talker, oversharer, and external processor, I was surprised that I didn't really want to talk to anybody. I read and appreciated every text. And ignored almost every call. It was like my voice wasn't working. I caught my son's flu and got so sick I could barely move. I felt it was cruel to be experiencing this trial on top of the miscarriage. My dear friend took off work to come sit with me while Chris was at work. My body hadn't started anything on its own, except for some very light spotting. My body actually still thought I was pregnant. And it was emotionally hard to walk around with my deceased baby in my body. I felt stuck between the bad news and the mourning. Eventually, after a week of waiting and with another ultrasound, we chose to take a medication called misoprostol, which would induce the labor-like miscarriage. She encouraged us to get babysitting for at least 3 days, preferably a week. She also gave us very strong painkillers and told me to prepare for extreme pain.
The following is graphic.
We went to stay with my parents. I took the painkillers. My grandmother covered the bed and floor with plastic, as we had been advised there might be a lot of blood. I had to insert the pills inside of my vagina and it was one of the most disturbing things I've ever had to do. I was surprised by how upsetting it was. I kept re-reading messages from a school friend who had shared what happened to her in detail and what to expect.
I had to stay still in bed for at least 1 hour after inserting the medication. I'd gone on Facebook and asked friends to send me funny things to distract me. I read those things and was actually able to laugh. After a while, I felt a strong pressure, then a pop, and called Chris in. He helped me to the bathroom and placed a kiddie potty in the normal one to catch the tissue (he didn't want to flush our baby down the toilet and we didn't want to clog the toilet). In there, I felt enormous pressure very similar to a strong contraction and then I passed large amounts of tissue the size of my first. The lumps looked like pieces of bright red liver. I burst into tears and felt like I couldn't get through this. Chris removed the bucket, helped me cover myself back up, and took me back to bed. Then he stayed in the bathroom to clean up the blood, take out the lumps of tissue, and place them in a jar. This became our routine. Every couple hours, the same thing would happen. The first day was absolutely horrible, physically and emotionally. It felt extremely uncomfortable but the pain wasn't too bad for me at all. The painkillers made me a little loopy so I just took some ibuprofen. Near the end, I passed a gray blob that had a form and a little dot. It looked...human...and when I saw it I lost it.
After 2 days, it seemed the worst was over and I was bleeding heavily but no longer passing clots. We went to the local mall to try to walk around a bit. It was almost Easter and I wanted a book for Jackson about Jesus. While I was kneeling down to pick up a book, I passed another large clot and felt panicked that it actually wasn't over. Chris had the idea to have a funeral and bury our baby in my parents' back yard. I was nervous about the closure of a funeral if everything actually wasn't over... I felt jaded and upset so Chris planned everything himself. He got a shovel, dug a hole, chose a scripture, and gathered my parents, grandmother, son, and called his parents and put them on speakerphone. We were out there for less than 10 minutes. Everybody got a chance to say something, Chris said a prayer, Jackson threw dirt into the hole. I played my "miscarriage song" and that was it. I was thankful for my husband and for the opportunity to honor our baby.
We went home right before Easter. On Good Friday, I couldn't sleep and lay in the middle of the floor crying for our baby and wondering if the pain would ever go away. I was strangely comforted by the thought of Jesus, alone and in pain too. I didn't think about the resurrection that day. During all that pain, I felt very loved and protected and comforted by both God and my support system. I felt vulnerable and it was like they covered me with their wings and cried with me. My college friends sent me a day of relaxation to use as I transitioned back to work. My dear mommy-friend sent a gift for Jack and a bracelet with my baby's birth stone. People acknowledged that my baby existed and that there was a hole in the world where they should be. It was validating and beautiful and needed.
Even though we never got to meet the baby, we also never get to forget. I was astounded by the degree of resonance this scene from This Is Us had for me. As a mommy with a living, healthy baby who I love with my whole heart, the pain for the (two) lost babies still resounds loudly in my heart:
So. Here we are. 7 months, to the day after I got that horrible news. And on the day that our baby may have been born. I am doing well. Very well, I think. But the grief comes randomly and strongly. I don't think I ever want to forget, even if it means the pain won't go away. I would like to honor my baby with my life: in my mothering, in my listening to other women, in my speaking about our experience. I do not understand. That's ok.
My baby lived and was loved fiercely for its entire life. I never got to meet this baby. But, we chose a name: We named the baby Angel. It helped.
