I thought I was in the clear after having two healthy baby girls. I was in the best shape of my life after remaining active during my second pregnancy. Our second baby was much easier so we decided to let nature decide when we would have a third. One evening in early April 2018 I got that faint double line in the middle of chugging back my pre-workout, set the glass down, and did my workout with a big ole grin on my face.
After several more tests (yes, I am a serially tester with those dip sticks from Amazon) and a 6 week ultrasound, I couldn’t wait to tell the world! A few close friends and family knew already. I made my fun “we’re expecting” announcement on social media. I knew it was early but always said if something ever happened to one of my pregnancies I wouldn’t want it to be in solitude. You don’t really know what that means until it happens.
“We’re pros at this by now”, so I thought. I went confidently into my 8 week follow up ultrasound solo with both of my girls (18 months + 3 years) in tow. Totally expecting a run of the mill appointment, my obgyn’s usual happy disposition came to a screeching halt. I knew it right then – something was wrong. Thankfully we don’t have ultrasound techs who then have to grab a doctor before they talk to you – we were able to address what was going on right then. The doctor whom I trusted with my prenatal care for 4 years thus far uttered “I’m not seeing anything.” Confused, I squinted at the screen and could see the big black sac but there was nothing inside of it. My little girls sat oblivious, staring at some tablet device in the chairs next to me. “What now?” I wasn’t prepared for this. Not today. Not….ever. He hugged me which clearly meant every tear I had held back thus far came pouring out.
I was immediately sent to the hospital next door for lab work (hcg levels). I dash out of the obgyn office a crying mess, one girl on my hip one by the hand. Wrestle them into car seats and call my husband. I manage to blubber out that I thought we had lost the baby. That I couldn’t really talk about it. Then I texted my mom the same and asked her not to call. I knew I couldn’t handle SAYING the words out loud again.
I get to the lab where the waiting area is decorated in flashy Easter decor. My 3 year old is standing at the door, playing with some of the streamers and I ask her to come sit with me. Okay, I asked her a few times while stifling tears and not wanting to take whatever these emotions were out on her. When she didn’t come sit with me, the receptionist asked, “does she always do that?” “Do what?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Not listen to you.”
Y’all. I usually run a million MPH away from confrontation but I clapped back with “this is her second appointment with me this morning, she’s 3 and you have shiny bunny decorations on the door. She’s doing what I expect a 3 year old would do right now.” Two days later I returned to the lab for the follow up blood work (no kids this time – I knew better). My numbers did not increase enough to indicate a viable pregnancy. I started spotting later that day.
Once I had shared the news with my close friends and family, I had this strange desire to share the news with my social media community. I had shared our celebration of a new baby and wanted to address this to avoid as many awkward “congrats!” in person as I could. After discussing it with my husband we decided to give it a little time. I found a way to graciously navigate the “what’s the due date?” “Will you find out the gender?” questions.
I spotted, passed small clots, stopped spotting, re-started spotting for almost 4 weeks. I wanted to miscarry naturally. I didn’t want a procedure. I was prepared for it to happen – had a plan in place. Looked up all the Pinterest tips (yep – Pinterest has tons of natural miscarriage info)! For four weeks I wore a pad in the heat of that early summer in the south. I attended pool parties on the sidelines, hauled my oldest to/from swimming lessons, missed out on the waterpark and beach plans. It was a miserable four weeks. Imagine the symptoms of early pregnancy combined with the symptoms of PMS. I was reaching the end of my “allowable wait time” that my doctor was comfortable with. My body just wasn’t getting the hint that while there was a gestational sac, there was no baby and it needed to go ahead and clean house.
The day before the scheduled D&C, I took my girls to the daytime $1 movie. My cramping became very intense to the point we had to leave. I was bleeding through my pads faster than I had available. Once home I had high hopes I had passed the sac. The next mornings ultrasound only showed that the sac had finally begun to break down but it was still very much there. I had just passed a clot. One of the nurses prayed over me before I was wheeled back when she saw what I was in there for.
The procedure went off without a hitch.
I felt better within 24 hours of the procedure. The cramping, the never ending pads, the bloat, the nausea were all gone. Just like that. We were also ready to share our loss now that the journey was over.
It’s important for women (and men) to know that it is okay to:
Announce an early pregnancy if its their first child.
Announce an early pregnancy if its not their child.
Share their loss even if it was early.
Share their loss when it was late.
Share their announcement and loss whenever they want to despite what others might think.
We are the ones who will be navigating life with this experience and we are the ones who know how we will best heal. I knew I would need the support from my people if something happened. I loved squealing and celebrating our news and I also was so grateful those closest to me knew we were expecting so I could run right back to them for love and prayers.
It’s okay to talk about it. If that’s what you want to do. It’s not okay to judge another mom on how she handles her new pregnancy announcement or pregnancy loss. Cheer for them, celebrate with them, be excited for them, pray for them, grieve with them, talk with them, empathize with them. Love them through it.
And mama…you’re the farthest thing from alone in your grief than you’ll ever know.