Miscarriage in 48 hours

There seems to be a particular code of etiquette around announcing a pregnancy. 

Especially one after a loss, like you shouldn't tell anyone because if you end up having another miscarriage, you have to tell people again you've lost another baby. 

"Congratulations! But you're going to keep it to yourself until you're out of the danger zone, right?" 

I wrestle with that often. Who will I tell? When? After all, not telling people until a specific week of gestation doesn't automatically guarantee that my body will work correctly. And that the life of the unborn child inside my womb is protected because no one knows, right? 

This 'rule' or 'recommended' about keeping new life a secret is silencing mother (and their partners) and forcing them into isolation. Why can't we just be excited for them in their pregnancy and, God forbid, if the time comes morn with them if it ends in a loss?

What about life and death regarding pregnancy forces us to believe expecting parents can't share their excitement and celebrate their news? 

Even if it is only for a short while.

We don't say to people who put offers in on houses not to tell people until it gets approved. "I wouldn't tell anyone you put an offer down until you know it got accepted because what if it doesn't?"

Or those who apply for a new job or promotion. "Don't tell anyone just in case it doesn't work out."

Or people who are going car shopping. "Oh, that's cool, but I wouldn't post about it because you might not find the car you want."

So what about pregnancy makes us tell mothers to keep it to themselves? Why do they need to be excited in silence? 

And if those 2 pink lines start fading away, why do they have to disappear along with them alone? Why do they have to cry alone in their house when their body fails? Why do we isolate women and make them go through the death of their unborn children alone? 

Suppose a person dies after they experience life, no matter their age. In that case, we come together, we mourn together, and we honor their life together. We hold an entire funeral, so we can be together in their death. But not if it's a miscarriage or stillbirth that, that the mothers have to do on their own. 

And it pisses me off.  

Over the past 4 weeks, I have been on an emotional roller coaster. We started TTC again after my recent miscarriage in May, this was the first month we actively tried, but we didn't just jump into it lightly. There was a lot of discussion between my husband and myself. We spoke with the kids to get a feel for where they stood with their grief and readiness to move forward. 

There was a lot of discussion between myself and, well, myself. I prayed hard. I mapped out just about every possible outcome. And thought about the impact those things might have. At the end of the day, no matter what, I felt like I was ready. 

We all know that no matter how much we want to, we can not control the outcome of the future. No matter how often I thought about getting pregnant, having another miscarriage, having a healthy pregnancy, or just about any other possible situation, I have to understand that I can not predict or control the outcome of the future. 

So, I called my OB/GYN filled my hormones, took them, and started tracking every single aspect of my cycle. I peed in a cup and dipped a stick it to test my LH hormone levels several times a day. I needed to catch my peak so I could know when I was ovulating. It was critical. 

My husband and I had a planned and structured routine for when we needed to do our part.

I had an ultrasound on cycle day 14 to check my follicles. It looked good! I had one really mature and dominant follicle! The exam itself isn't all pleasant. That wand they use and the pressure required to get a clear image is uncomfortable, to say the least. Exams like this already affect my mental status as a sexual assault survivor. Still, there is also the reminder of my miscarriage. After my cycle day 14 exam, I had a panic attack. I disassociated and ended up in the emergency room because I just couldn't get myself grounded. 

On cycle day 22, blood work was drawn to check the amount of progesterone in my blood. Good news, I did, in fact, ovulate! My body responded to the hormones, and now I just needed it to work and hold on to that egg. 

7 days before my period was due to return, I started testing for HGC hormones with an at-home pregnancy test. A little too early, and I knew that, but I was anxiously awaiting news on if this would be it. 

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

Day after day after day. I'm out. It failed. I processed that. I had come to terms with it that my body failed and that I wasn't pregnant again. 

But I still wanted to cling to hope. So I continued testing. My period hadn't started after all.

Negative. 

Negative. 

Negative. 

Neg…wait, that's a line! A faint line but a line nonetheless. 

So I called and made an appointment to have my blood work done. 

The hours passed by slowly. I was stuck to my phone for hours. I wanted to be pregnant so badly. Where were the results!?  

Refresh.

Refresh.

Refresh.

The email notification came through. 

"A final result has been added to your my chat account. Please log in to view."

POSITIVE! 

Barely, but positive.

I'm pregnant, and my heart swells, but my brain quickly puts my feelings in check. 

"Don't. Get. Excited."  

But I am, I'm excited, today I'm pregnant. 

No matter how hard I try, I can't shake the feeling that this isn't going to last. That something terrible is going to happen. 

"That's normal, it's normal to be anxious, it's normal to be worried something might happen after your loss."

48 hours passed by in the blink of an eye. 

And boy, did I get excited. I told a few people, a select few. Those I wanted to pray for us, for our rainbow baby. 

My EDD was 5/2/23, precisely one year from the day we found our son's heart had stopped. This was indeed a sign. 

Yet my gut kept saying something wasn't right. 

I went for my repeat blood work, so we could see how my numbers were trending up. I mentioned my concerns to the medical assistant, who is also a good friend. She told me it would be okay. That I'm just anxious, and that's to be expected. 

Before I knew it, my results were back. 

Negative. 

Fuck. 

I knew it. I knew that something wasn't right. 

I wasn't supposed to be excited. 

I cried. I screamed. Until I made myself sick. I just let it out into the air, I was home alone, and I took advantage of manipulating the silence and giving grief and anger a sound. 

I called my husband, but he couldn't come home. He was busy. 

I called my best friend. She was still at work. 

I texted another friend. No response. Typical.

The seconds passed by slowly. I felt like a bomb had just exploded. I felt this all over my body. My ears were ringing, my vision was blurry from the tears, I was hot, and my breathing was staggered as I lay in my bed. My body never felt so heavy as it pushed against the mattress. 

Rachel eventually came through the door, and I told her what was happening. She didn't even know I was pregnant; I hadn't had a chance to tell her. Rachel isn't the best with words. I know that. She knows that. But she knew that her presence is healing for me, so she showed up. That's what I needed and not to be alone. 

My youngest daughter was supposed to be home soon, so I needed to pull myself together. So I did just that. 

My phone rang, and the OBgyn office wanted me to come in at 4. Why? There isn't anything we can do. Right? I've already decided I'm just going to wait and let my body try and do what it was designed to do. But could it? It can't hold onto a pregnancy, so can it expel one? Time will tell. 

Rachel stayed with my youngest. I went to pick up my husband from work, brought him home to stay with the kids, and went on my own to the office. 

The nurse midwife, Melissa, is the one I saw when we started our TTC journey almost a year ago. We discussed getting my body off birth control, ensuring everything was healthy, and ensuring things were working correctly. My cycles were regular before we got married and started trying to expand our family. She was the one who helped us conceive Jesse. She is also the one who had to tell us we had lost him. 

History sure does have a way of repeating itself. Because here I sit across from her again, as she's telling me my pregnancy isn't viable. Again. This poor woman. My heart breaks for her. What a crappy way to end the day. I feel so guilty that I cause so much pain in other people's lives. Why? Why do I feel guilty for having another pregnancy loss and her having to tell me? Why is society making me feel like my pregnancy journey, and my pregnancy loss is a burden for other people? Why has society made me think and feel guilty for the emotions and feelings other people might have when I express that I have lost another child? 

There are many stages of grief and loss, and man, did I cycle through them so fast. I went from anger that My body failed again. Then sadness that I was here again. To even a bit of nonacceptance. Maybe the blood work was wrong, and it's just a fluke. I know it's not. I know my pregnancy is over, and it's unfair because my pregnancy didn't even have time to start. 

How could I feel so disappointed over something that was barely even there, to begin with? 

 

I've never felt more broken. As a wife who can't provide her husband with a child. As a woman who can't bring a child forth in this world. As a mom who just wants to bear and raise another baby. 

Why, God, is this happening to me?

My heart feels so heavy. 

Monday, I was pregnant.

Today I am not.