I remember the day I found out I was pregnant the first time. It was in August. We were so excited, and Rob even told the guy who delivered our groceries that morning. I made an appointment with my family doctor, and when she cautioned me against sharing my news too early, that was the first time it even crossed my mind that I might miscarry.
That same week I felt some odd twinges in my side. The Internet told me I may have an ectopic pregnancy, but I just held firm to my belief that pregnancy was sure to feel weird, and that this was just a weird pregnancy feeling. We had a weekend out of the city planned with friends, and I was more concerned about how I'd explain to them why I wasn't drinking.
While we were away in Ottawa, the bleeding started. I was about 5 and a half weeks pregnant. We were at a bar. I remember Rob asking a waitress where the closest hospital was. I remember standing in the corner of the bar crying while Rob went to explain to his friends sitting on the patio that we had to leave. I remember that same waitress, bless her, who came up to me and told me she knew first aid if I needed anything.
After a long night at the hospital, I was diagnosed with a suspected ectopic pregnancy. I needed immediate surgery. I also wasn't allowed to go back home to Toronto for the surgery. It had to happen now in case the embryo ruptured and resulted in unrepairable damage. I was devastated.
The surgery carried serious risks including loss of a fallopian tube. Rob saw me off to surgery and waited alone in a hospital hours away from family and friends, with a nearly dead cell phone, trying to keep it together while updating our parents.
Thankfully it turned out that my pregnancy wasn't ectopic, but it was just at a place in the uterus very close to my right fallopian tube that was difficult to see among all of the blood cells on the ultrasound. It was still a miscarriage. My pregnancy was still over. It had only been a few weeks but, in my heart, that baby was so real.
My second miscarriage was much less dramatic. It was January by the time we were seriously ready to try getting pregnant again. I took a pregnancy test at home, and it came back with the faintest positive line possible. A few days later I started to miscarry. I went to my doctor to just let her know, but no real medical intervention was necessary. There was less screaming. There was more crying.
My family doctor referred me to a recurrent loss clinic in Toronto. Normally, recurrent loss is defined as three miscarriages, but I pleaded with my doctor for help, and she got me into the clinic.
I was at a standoff against my own uterus. I clung to stories of women who had miscarried but went on to have healthy babies. But, in the back of my mind, I always feared that I was going to be the one. The one story that wouldn't have a happy ending.
At the clinic we did, what felt like, an extraordinary amount of testing. Vials and vials of blood. Weeks and weeks of waiting. Meanwhile, it seemed like every single person around me was pregnant. During this testing phase I knew ten pregnant friends or co-workers. Ten!!! And some of these people didn't even want to be pregnant. It had been an accident. I felt paralyzed. I was standing still and watching everyone carry on with their lives in front of me. I was at the bottom of a mountain I had no idea how to climb watching everyone pass me with ease. Only a handful of people knew what we were going through, and it was very challenging to put on a smiling face for our friends who had no idea we were torn up inside.
To keep me from going completely off the deep-end, I made an appointment with the infertility social worker at the clinic we were using. (As an aside, this is when I first learned that recurrent loss falls under the umbrella of infertility.) I was in a much better place to listen to this social worker and talk to her about what we were going through. Talking to her gave me specific tools and language to use with family and friends. Most importantly, she gave permission to not attend events where there would be babies or pregnant women. I was allowed to politely decline invitations to baby showers and housewarming parties. I was allowed to send a gift and not go. I was allowed to leave these events early. And, instead of feeling like a jerk about it, she helped me craft an email to my friends telling them to please continue to invite us but know that we may not be able to attend. This was the day I began to talk more openly about pregnancy loss. To pull strength from it and keep going for no other reason than I had to.
After all the testing, we were told that they didn't really know what was going on. It could be microclots, so I was told to take a daily low dose of asprin moving forward. My progesterone was "a little bit low", so I started taking supplements. We were given a 72-76% chance to have a baby. It was June, and we were given the go ahead to try again.
I clung to stories of women who miscarried and quickly went on to have a healthy baby. - See more at: https://www.scarymommy.com/recurrent-miscarriage-recurrent-hope/#sthash.SpkOAAb7.dpufPregnancy is never the same for someone who has suffered a miscarriage. In August I found out I was pregnant with Sebastian via a telephone call. Almost 1 year to the day from my first miscarriage. I don't even really remember being happy. I called Rob at work. We didn't say much. We both just kind of felt like, "OK. Let's see what happens." Early on in my pregnancy with Sebastian, I often felt that this was a backup baby. That my connection with this baby wasn't going to be as strong. I felt that my first baby was supposed to be my "real baby," and I had forever lost my one, legitimate chance at being a mom.
I still had lots of spotting throughout my first trimester. Each time was scary. But every time I started freaking out the recurrent loss clinic would do an ultrasound and tell us everything was still ok. I had wicked morning sickness and vomited all day long, and I refused to take anything for it for weeks because it reminded me that I was still pregnant. (Eventually, my doctor gave me the "they don't give out awards for this stuff" speech, and I started taking diclectin to ease the nausea.) Later on in my pregnancy, my fertility doctor at the clinic proudly declared me "boring." He told me to go home and continue being "boring."
And now we have Sebastian. He's 3 and a half. I look at him and can't imagine him not being here. I can't even picture what life would be like if I hadn't had these miscarriages, and I had carried a healthy baby to term the first time around. I wouldn't wish Sebastian away for anything. He is worth the tears we cried. He absolutely is our "real baby".
If I got pregnant again, I wouldn't be instagramming the ultrasound immediately, but I think I would tell some of my family and a few very close friends early on. Because if shit hit the fan, again, I'd need these people beside me.
It's hard to talk about sad things. But the reality is that they happen often. Doctors suspect about 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. That's so many. That's a lot of sad mamas who need their loved ones to sit with them while they cry. To hold their hands. To make them a cup of tea. To tell them that they are wonderful. To encourage them to not give up hope.
Another important lesson I learned is that just because you found out you miscarried at 5 or 6 weeks, it doesn't mean you didn't lose your baby. Do not believe it should be any less painful. It is still a loss. That feeling is still grief.
I used to think that miscarriage was only something that happened in made for tv movies. That it couldn't possibly happen to me. I don't think by any means you should have to talk about your miscarriage if you've had one, but I do believe that the more we share our stories if we are able, the less we feel alone. Mark Zukerberg, Pink, Nicole Kidman, Gwyneth Paltro, and Beyoncé have all openly shared that they were the 1 in 4.
I had barely even heard of the word miscarriage before I had one. It's a club no one wants to join. But yet here we are. And maybe even a little stronger for it.