Posts tagged ‘infertility’
It’s been five weeks and one day since my D&C. Yes, I am counting. No, I really don’t want to. I wake up every fucking morning and it is the first thing that comes to mind – five weeks, one day. No longer pregnant. Staring down the possibility of actively trying to conceive. Slinking away from the possibility of more loss.
I mentioned before that I had my D&C performed at a Manhattan abortion clinic because in a city of 8 million it takes a week or more for your OB’s clinic, or his OB buddies, to get you on the D&C schedule. Some might be able to live for a week with a dead baby inside of them. I cannot. So I opted for the abortion clinic.
I did not cry the morning of the procedure. I did not cry in the cab. I did not cry in the waiting room. I did not cry as I sat, naked and draped in a gown in the “holding area,” absorbent square of paper under my butt. I did not cry when they called me back to use the restroom.
I did cry when they walked me through the doors into a sterile, brightly lit room. I cried big hot tears when I saw that all to familiar table and stirrups. I cried when I saw all the white coats, all the machines, the suction device. I could not catch my breath as they laid me back and put the IV in. I desperately needed to speak but I couldn’t find my voice between the sobs.
All I wanted was to tell these women my story. I needed 60 seconds to say that this baby was WANTED and if they saw a heartbeat to leave it. But I couldn’t. I could not get the words out and rather than give me a moment to collect myself the anesthesiologist said, “You are going to feel sleepy.”
And then I was gone.
I just wanted to tell my story. I wanted them to know this was not an abortion. I’m sure they knew from my paperwork but I still needed to say it. I needed them to know that this was my miracle that they were about to suck from my womb. I needed to share my pain for just a moment. I needed closure.
But there was no moment.
For the last 36 mornings I have woken up wondering if my baby might have been alive. Even though I know it wasn’t. Heartbeats don’t come and go. But the ache is still there.
“You know, I am ok,” I said to my therapist on Wednesday. “I am sad, I am angry and I am frustrated to be unwillingly thrown back into this infertility roller coaster, but ultimately, I am ok.”
This was a really, really big declaration for me. In the past when sad/bad/traumatic things happen and prompt big emotion I shut down. I stop sleeping, panic fills my chest and I can’t think logically about anything. Over the last few months, I have learned that I have the same fear reaction to strong emotions as people who suffer from arachnophobia have to spiders.
I was raised to be tough and to shove things aside, often being criticized as acting dramatically or being selfish when I let emotions bubble to the surface. No harm was meant in this. On the contrary, my parents were only trying to raise a solid, strong, rational person. But it backfired, making me absolutely terrified to feel things. Terrified to feel life.
My therapist is amazing and has been slowly bringing traumatic experiences of my past to the surface. We let them simmer, we poke them a bit, we monitor my reactions and we talk about the chemical reactions that are happening in my brain as I start to panic. It has been the most productive therapy of my life and I can finally see real light at the end of this tunnel.
The miscarriage, shitty and devastating as it is, is actually a great test of these new skills. I’m letting myself feel sad when sad happens. I’m letting myself cry when tears burn. I’m letting myself be angry when the rage rises. I am being kind to myself when the crashing hormones cause me to act irrationally, remembering that this action was merely the result of chemicals in my brain and in no way defines who I am. I remind myself that I am not this experience. I am not this grief.
And I have been ok. There have been no sleepless nights and no chest sucking panics. I apologize to my husband when I act insane and he says he understands, it takes time. I am putting extra energy into being there for Sabine, as I know during the brief pregnancy I was extremely preoccupied and distant. When I slip and lose my temper I hug her and apologize. She does not understand what happened, but I hope she at least senses that her mother is trying her damnedest and that maybe I can set a good example of how one should healthily handle grief.
I have our one crumpled ultrasound picture from the first scan sitting on my desk. A pathetically tiny dot in a sea of grainy black and white. The date discrepancies and “high risk” notification along the edge. I was going to throw it away but for some reason feel I should keep it, and right now I need it front and center. It is reminding me to be sad and to feel. I’m not ready to let this baby go yet. It took months for me to let Pip, our first loss, “go” and I think it will take months for this one as well.
The Professor and I have gone back and forth about how to proceed. We had been so comfortable with one child before this happened and we opened our hearts to the idea of two. Now, just having one seems so lonely. Sabine deserves a chance at being an awesome big sister and she deserves the chance for a lifelong relationship with a blood sibling. My husband and I deserve the chance to try for that and can’t let the judgement of those around us (some family is not supportive of our having more than one) influence this decision. Our decision.
More treatments, though, are not an option. IVF and all the hormones involved were devastating for my system. The heartbreak, the invasive appointments, the jargon and cold florescent lights were all too much. We both agree treatments are over.
Instead, we’ll take this spring and summer to heal, to mourn, and to enjoy our amazing child in this amazing city. In October we will start a year of natural attempts at pregnancy. If a baby comes we will rejoice. If not, we will know we tried and it will be time to move on. Until October, we are going to work to improve our egg and sperm quality with supplements and lifestyle changes. I did not have genetic testing done on this baby but am fairly confident that it was a chromosomal abnormality. The similarities between it and my first loss, which was a Trisomy 15, were too great.
Most importantly, though, we reserve the right to change our mind if October comes and we don’t want to go down that path. My husband respects my body and my choices. If I don’t want to try, I don’t have to. There will be no discussion about it. And the same goes for him. So time will tell.
Note: there are dear friends who know me in real life and read this blog. Some of you are currently struggling with infertility or adoption yourselves. I had intended to call and share this news personally before writing here, but then it ended and picking up the phone is just too hard. I am so sorry. Also, we have not told our families about this and do not intend to. Please respect this.
It’s been quiet here, and for good reason. I have written this post many times in my head with moving prose and imagery, but now that I’m here it has all dissolved.
I found out I was miraculously pregnant a few weeks ago. The professor and I were terrified and cried when we found out. The timing could not be worse with our living/job/financial situation. The initial reaction was not to keep it, but we quickly realized that was not an option for us. So we embraced it. We talked about how we would make a second child work in our small space, smaller budget, and uncertain job situation. We got excited. We talked about names. Sabine was going to be the best big sister and we could not wait to let her know around 20 weeks.
My first beta looked good – higher than my other pregnancies. My first ultrasound did not. Baby was there but a week behind and the heart rate was very slow. Since we weren’t certain when I ovulated, though, everything still could be good.
“The heart could have just started beating today,” said the doctor. “Congratulations, you are no longer infertile!”
I cringed when he said that because, deep in my heart, I knew that was not true. The similarities between this ultrasound and the one with my first loss were too great.
Yesterday I went back for another scan. I had terrible morning sickness, a cold I could not shake and a heart full of hope. This was meant to be. This was our miracle unicorn that was going to give Sabine a sibling and make our house the chaotic, love-filled place of my dreams. But it was not to be. The ultrasound showed a 7-week embryo, dead still, no heart beat. The baby had grown a full week meaning the heart had stopped very recently. I didn’t cry until that night.
We weren’t trying for this pregnancy. I was actually trying to avoid pregnancy as my cycles were slowly returning and regulating. Two weeks after my positive test I was scheduled to have an IUD placed, just in case. I had made peace with my amazing only child. I was happy to see her growing up and becoming more independent. I was happy to begin having a little time for self-care. I was excited to start down a career path again as she approached school age. Things were getting better.
And then the universe threw me a spontaneous pregnancy and three weeks of dreaming, shifting our mentality and readjusting our life plan. And then that fucking universe took it all away. Again.
Today I had a D&C at a Manhattan abortion center because my OB was too busy and no one else could get me on the schedule for at least a week. While I always respect a women’s right to choose, sharing a room with women opting to end a potentially healthy pregnancy was so, so hard. At the bottom of my form, I had to fill out new stats – Number of pregnancies: 3, Number of miscarriages: 2, Number of live births: 1. These are not numbers I had wanted to see change, yet there they were.
I have been told that in time I’ll see a reason for all of this. That I’ll find peace and move on. But right now, mere hours after the remains of so much hope were sucked my womb, I am having a hard time believing.