Today
I should be 22 weeks pregnant. But I’m
not.
This
is a post I never thought I’d write. Not
because I didn’t think this could happen to me, but because I never imagined
I’d be brave enough to talk about it on the internet and put it out there for
the world to see and judge. Opening up
about this has been weighing heavily on me and I’ve gone back and forth about
whether or not to say anything on the blog.
It’s like if I don’t say anything, maybe it didn’t even happen. But a few things have happened over the last
couple weeks that really made me think that I might just be ready to share…that
my story just might make a difference to someone else. So I’m holding my breath and taking a big
leap of faith here. Please be kind.
First
of all, yes, we’d been trying. As you
may recall, we had a hard time getting pregnant with Mac and we knew we wanted
him to have a sibling close in age. As
overwhelmed as I was having one spirited baby that didn’t sleep through the
night (and still doesn’t), the thought of having another made my heart absolutely
soar. In the hospital as I was getting
prepped for my c-section, I joked to my OB that it’d be great if she could just put
another baby in when they took Mac out. I
was half kidding, not actually knowing what I was getting into with one
baby, but I was ready to grow our family and knew we weren’t stopping at one. It helped that I loved being pregnant and that
Mac is the most amazing kid in the world. I’d take 10 of him. So when it was time to start trying again for
#2, needless to say, I was ready.
It
took about four months this time. No
drugs, no shots, no ultrasounds, no doctor’s visits, no blood work, no
stress. This time my body had done what
it was supposed to do. I was so proud of
it. I was also incredibly relieved that
we were going to avoid all the pain and heartache that came along with
fertility treatments. The thought of
going through everything we went through to get Mac again scared me to death. I didn’t know if I could handle it physically
or emotionally again. I prayed that we
could do this on our own, that pregnancy had somehow “fixed” me. And when I saw those two pink lines on the
test, I broke down in tears of joy and relief and gratitude.
I
spent the next two weeks on a cloud. The
baby would be due in November. I would
be on maternity leave for the holidays.
Our children would be 18 months apart.
They would grow up the best of friends, just like Ryan and his
brother. We’d move Mac into the guest
room down the hall and he’d have a “big boy” room. We’d have to buy another crib. Another stroller. Another high chair. I made plans.
I made an OB appointment for the week of Ryan’s birthday. What a great gift it would be to see the
baby’s heartbeat. I daydreamed about Mac
being a big brother. We’d know the sex
of the baby by the Fourth of July! I
looked at our list of names. I touched
my belly constantly, knowing that I had a secret. I ordered a pair of mint maternity jeans and
I was so excited to wear them with a big round belly. I made a secret Pinterest
board of all the fun ways we were going to announce that our family would be
growing. It was all so exciting. It’s really amazing how many plans you can
make and how much you can love something in such a short amount of time.
And
just as easily as it happened, it un-happened.
We
were devastated. Humiliated. Scared.
Sad. Angry. Shocked.
I don’t even know how to describe the range of emotions running through
me. I was surprised and overwhelmed at
how much I had grown to love the baby (or the idea of it) in only a few
weeks. I was shocked that this was happening
to me. After all, it had all felt so
right. I was supposed to have this
baby. I was supposed to be
pregnant. But then part of me felt like
I should have known better – that it was just too easy, too good to be
true. Which made me angry. Angry that my body was failing me again. Angry that having a baby was so incredibly
hard for us when it was so easy for everyone else. Why did we have to go through this? What had we done to deserve this?
But
mainly, I was sad. Sad that I had
somehow failed this baby. Sad that I
wouldn’t get the chance to meet him/her.
Sad that she wouldn’t get to be a part of our family. Sad that Mac wouldn’t get that baby brother
or sister. Sad that I didn’t do my part
to keep her safe. Just so incredibly
sad.
When
they told us that we’d lost the baby, I already knew it. I felt vacant and empty and alone. I tried to hold it together, but as soon as
Ryan left the hospital room, I lost it.
I had the biggest, ugliest cry of my entire life. I cried until the nurse came in and gave me a
hug. I cried for me, for Mac, for Ryan,
for the baby that would never have the chance to cry on her own. I cried until I passed out. When I woke up and it was time to go home I
was cried out. I gathered my things,
washed the mascara off my face and walked to the car, with my hair still in a
fancy up-do from the wedding I was missing.
It was time to be a mommy again. Time
to go home. Time to take care of the
baby I had and be strong for him.
Just
typing this all out feels surreal. I
feel like the last few months have been like watching a movie of this happening
to someone else. Someone else is going
through the motions. Someone else is getting
through it. Someone else is being
strong. Because there’s no way I could
possibly be that strong. I would be in a
pile of sadness, letting it consume me and define me. And yet, I’m not. I think I’m ok. I think I’ll be fine. Of course, not a day goes by that I don’t
think about what happened; that I don’t feel sadness and heartsick about
it. But I also think that having Mac by
my side – happy, healthy, strong and growing – somehow makes it better. I am so grateful for that child.
Over
the last few weeks I’ve had multiple friends share their recent losses with me,
which never seems to get easier. I’m
honored that they trust me with their experience and feel safe enough with me
to open their hearts. Their loss becomes
my loss all over again and I mourn with each of them over their lost hopes and
dreams. I’m not sure if they’ve approached
me because they “know” that I went through this – whether that means actual
knowledge or just a feeling that I might be part of this secret club that none
of us ever wanted to join. Or maybe
because they know that I’m no stranger to those intense and indescribable
feelings of wanting a baby so badly it hurts.
But each time I tell my story, it seems to make someone going through it
themselves feel a little bit better, a little less alone, a little more
normal.
So
that’s why I’ve chosen to share this post with you today. In the hopes that maybe someone out there
reading this is going through something similar and somehow my words will make
it a little better. I know the power of blogging
myself and how comforting it can be to know someone else has been in your shoes
and survived. In the weeks after my
miscarriage I reached out to a fellow blogger (that I didn’t even know),
because years ago I had read her posts on her miscarriage and I immediately
felt like somehow she would understand what I was going through better than
anyone else. Her email back to me was so
sweet and thoughtful and really made me felt like I wasn’t alone in this. Thank you, Julia.
And
so we’ll all get through it…together. I’m
not saying that I’m over it. I’m
definitely not. It's hard not to imagine how different things would be had it not happened. It's hard not to think of what could have been. Sometimes it hits me out of the blue and I'm overwhelmed by grief and sadness. But it does get a little
easier every day. Somehow, some way,
it’ll all work out like it’s supposed to. Right? At least I’ll keep telling myself that. I feel like my experience with infertility
taught me a valuable lesson in patience and trust. When I finally held Mac in my arms after all
those years of trying, I somehow knew why I had to go through it. I knew that I needed that struggle to
appreciate it. I knew I was meant to
wait for him. Hindsight is a funny thing. Maybe I’ll never know why I lost this
baby. Or maybe someday it’ll make
sense. Either way, I know how lucky I
am. And I know that life goes on. And we’re all in this together.
Love
you all.
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