The S#%t That is Pregnancy Loss
Part 2
*Please be aware this blog post shares specifics of pregnancy loss.
Going through a pregnancy loss is gut wrenching. I am thankful for my husband, my family and support network for showing me lots of love after we opened up about our experience. However, my tendency towards optimism wasn’t totally tarnished. I thought, “Pregnancy loss happens. It sucks, but it happens.” Which meant that I should soldier on and keep trying for the second child that we still very much wanted. My husband and I did exactly this. Our doctor advised us to wait until I’d had at least one complete menstrual cycle to allow the lining of my uterus to be prepared for potential implantation. We waited for just that one cycle and began trying again.
After two months, we found ourselves expecting yet again. I rushed to tell my closest friends and family the good news. I felt like they had gone through the pain with us in our recent loss and now deserve to share in our joy of being pregnant. In fact, multiple people told me they were proud of me for ‘getting back on the horse’. There were still some concerns in the back of my mind (i.e. ‘is it too soon’, ‘going for the ultrasound is going to suck’), but I felt like they were expected under the circumstances. These concerns were more about managing my own anxieties than worrying about the pregnancy itself. Even though pregnancy loss is common (15-25%), having two in a row is much less common (2%).
When I made the call to my OB’s office to schedule a visit, I made sure to mention our loss and that I was nervous about the ultrasound. I didn’t want to come in too early and have to go through two weeks of ultrasounds, with all the worry in between. This is what happened in my previous pregnancy loss and wasn’t something I was eager to repeat (you can read part one of this blog here). But often, the things we fear come to be. I ended up having to go in two weeks in a row which was nerve racking, but ultrasound number 2 at week 7 gave us a beautiful tiny heartbeat. This gave me a real sense of security. Like, okay! We are pregnant. Let’s go! I also felt a sense of relief, that our previous loss wasn’t due to some hidden issue or that my body wasn’t to blame.
Ultrasound number 2 at week 7 gave us a beautiful tiny heartbeat.
During these early weeks I was feeling a number of pregnancy symptoms, mostly tiredness and mild nausea. I very much welcomed these symptoms because they meant that I was pregnant and they made me feel confident (well mentally they did, physically they sucked). There was a point between weeks 8-9 where I distinctly remember a slackening of these symptoms. It gave me pause, but I chalked it up to my body adjusting to that early hormone rush.
On April 21, we were ten weeks and went in for our first official prenatal appointment after the dating ultrasounds. We went over normal stuff, answered questions about testing preferences and did an over the belly heart rate check on baby. The OB wasn’t able to get a reading, but during my pelvic exam found that my uterus was tilted so thought it was unsurprising that we weren’t able to get an external reading. She sent us back for an ultrasound just for a double check. Yes, back to ultrasound.
Once in the room with the wand inserted, the tech started to move around. She asked pretty unconcernedly, “How many weeks are you?”. “We should be right at 10,” I replied. This is when she stopped everything and said, “I’m going to need to go get the Dr.”. Nothing more. That put me on edge immediately. My husband, Mitch, was in the room and tried to keep me calm saying that we didn’t know anything yet. But I knew. I knew by the way she talked and how she rushed out of the room that something was wrong.
“How many weeks are you?”
When the tech and my OB returned, the tech began the ultrasound again. She said, “I’m only seeing the baby register at what would be 8 weeks.” Then she turned the microphone on to check for a heartbeat, and there was only silence. The OB held my lower leg and simply said, “I’m sorry.” I was left sobbing uncontrollably in Mitch’s arms as they left the room. I couldn’t talk, I felt like I could barely breathe. Mitch somehow got me down to the car and on the ride home I experienced that feeling of writhing within your own skin. Like somehow, if you could escape your physical body, you could leave your pain behind.
Thoughts like, “How is this happening again?”, “Do I deserve this?”, “What’s wrong with me?”, “I can’t do this again” were all rolling through my head. I saw my happy-go-lucky optimism of ‘getting back on the horse’ completely erased. One loss felt bad, two felt destroying.
After crying hysterically for a while, I spent the rest of the day staring blankly at the wall in my room for hours. The fact that this was happening again, and so soon after our first loss felt cruel. It also made me feel guilty or that I had rushed into another terrible situation. In the few days following the appointment, I told my best friend, “I feel like I’m walking around with something dead inside me.” And I did, I felt utterly defeated.
Having gone through a traumatic first loss, I was frozen as to what to do to manage this loss. My OB basically had no in-office option for a D&C because they only did them once a month (W T actual F?!). So it was either go to the hospital for a D&C or take the medication route. Neither sounded appealing, but I generally tend towards less intervention when possible. In the end, it didn’t matter because things started on their own anyway.
April 27, 2021 we lost our second pregnancy.
Knowing what I was about to go through made it much worse, especially since I was several weeks further along this time. The physical expulsion of what should be your child feels… Well, it feels like a forced tearing away of your most intimate self. My breath was rapid, sharp and loud. The guttural, animal sounds coming from me as I was losing the largest of the tissue masses aren’t ones I knew I was capable of making. Mitch ended up taking our son McCall outside because in our small condo you can hear everything. He later found me curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor.
That day I felt a horrible, but very real connection to our primal roots. It’s hard to describe, but in a somewhat similar way to giving birth, I felt a deep connection to all wombs that weep with loss.
Going through a second pregnancy loss right on the heels of our first one, was really a gut punch after already getting sucker punched in the face. I felt like for sure there was something wrong, with me, with Mitch, with us together. But when it comes to pregnancy loss, there is little to no information, assessments or medical reasons offered or even looked for. “These things just happen”, “It is usually the body recognizing a genetic abnormality” or “We really don’t know” are some of the things I was told. In fact, I was told they don’t even consider further investigation until you’ve had three losses. This leaves birthing people totally in the dark and likely beating themselves up mentally, myself included. It is such complete and utter bullshit to me. I, like so many others, will never know what happened.
I’m writing this 4 months removed from our second pregnancy loss. The deep ache has eased somewhat and I don’t cry everyday. But I still cry. Sometimes it’s unexpected and other times I feel it coming. I have started going to therapy, something new in my life. I recently told my therapist that I feel like these losses have made me feel more human. There is so much hardship that comes with being human and this has been my most personal exposure to that. And even though it’s not something I wanted, something I still don’t want, it has made my well deeper. In response to this statement, my therapist replied, “It sounds like you’re talking about post-traumatic growth.”
What’s that? I thought there was only post-traumatic stress? Turns out, loss, grief, trauma and despair aren’t universally destined to have a completely negative effect on you. There are also opportunities for growth that come from hardship. This is something we see quite readily in the sporting world. Athletes get knocked down, suffer a horrible loss, have a catastrophic injury or don’t make the team and sometimes that ends them and other times it sends them to new heights. Which path you take isn’t always clear, it isn’t definitive and it can change over time. And it’s not at all that you have to “find reason” or “have something good come from it” or “make the best of it”. For me, it will always suck. It will forever be a pain that I carry in my heart. And yet, through the love of my husband, my son, my family and friends, therapy and lots of reflection, I have found that I am strong enough to make it through. These precious children have had a lasting impact on me and I am choosing to remember them with more love and positivity than anything else.
If you are reading this and have experienced your own loss, I want you to know that you too are strong enough to make it through. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. To love means that at some point you will grieve. The babes that you want desperately to have in your arms will take up residence in your heart. Try to be kind and patient with yourself. Seek out the support you need, personal and/or professional. This isn’t something you have to go through alone.
Every night when I put my son to bed I finish with a song from the movie Cinderella. It has taken on new meaning for me. It is both an acknowledgement of heartache and encouragement to keep going. It gives me comfort and I hope it does the same for you.
