Positively Adrift

The devastation felt after learning my baby had no heartbeat is indescribable.

The image of the embryo not moving or even wiggling during the ultrasound was a complete out of body and out of moment experience. Disbelief plagued me. It didn’t feel right.

In essence, I was carrying around a dead baby inside of me for two weeks. My body didn’t know yet, and I sure as heck didn’t.

How could I believe my baby was dead when every doctor said that this pregnancy would be different. Conjoined twins were an anomaly; a rare occurrence that holds no bar for future pregnancies.

Its seems that anomalies are not on a time frame. They don’t care what you have been through.

Soon my husband and I were ushered into my doctors private office to figure out how to proceed. The logical walls I built around my brain was now being pummeled by emotional torment.

He told us I had a missed miscarriage. For whatever reason my baby died and my body has yet to realize. Literally any day now my body could naturally decide to abort.

The pain would be similar to menstrual cramps but much more painful. The emotional toll alone would bring me to my knees, so the thought of going into essentially what would be labor is honestly a burden I don’t know I could bare. My doctor felt the same and recommended I have a surgery to remove everything out of my uterus. You know, “everything” as in my baby.

We scheduled a dilation and curretage surgery, commonly known as a D&C, a week from that day. This was the road I needed to take after the trauma of my last pregnancy. Other options included waiting it out so my body could naturally abort or a pill that would tell my uterus to abort immediately.

I carried my babe for another week in wake of a surgery that would suck it right out of me. Truly horrific thought. And that week was strange, like I was watching someone else’s life through a TV screen. I had a belly bump, and I looked pregnant, but not really.

And also, nobody knew, accept my mother and my sister. We told no one else for this exact scenario that we dreaded would happen. I anticipated my mothers familiar devastated reaction that honestly brought a validating comfort, for we gave her similar news a year and a half ago.

Post-op included blood work and a Covid test. The women administering the giant q-tip swap up my sinuses asked about what surgery I was getting. She could sense my devastation. I told her I wanted my baby, and she said of course you did. I appreciate the kindness and sensitivity this woman gave to me.

Two days later I entered the hospital anxious and alone.

Join me on my path back to hope~

What can I say about life…for one thing it is precious. I don’t take creating life lightly. The thought of having children at a young age was terrifying so I took precautions, and decided in my late twenties that I was mostly(ish) ready. Every child I have are intentionally and unconditionally wanted.

But not all of my children are with me physically on this earth. That pill is challenging to swallow on days where I am ok.

My children are my world created with intent so out-living them and grieving for all that cannot be has caused me to pause. I stopped writing my feelings and thoughts, but I certainly didn’t stop feeling them. I stopped exercising. I stayed home.

Spring 2020 unearthed buried grief and depression along with a global pandemic. My girls first birthday in heaven in May was subconsciously enveloped in sadness that carried itself into the summer.

In July I decided I was ready to try again for another baby. We were excited and hesitant to see a positive pregnancy test the following month. We told no one at first, and after several weeks we told two people. After what happened with our last pregnancy we were incredibly hesitant to tell anyone. The first 12 weeks are critical, and miscarriage is more likely in that gestational period.

I took life easy (as one does in a pandemic with carried over grief from a previous traumatic pregnancy). I stayed home, looked after myself and family, played animal crossing. The kind of self care that I never allowed myself to receive before the passing of my girls.

That pregnancy test is still in my medicine cabinet. I can’t seem to throw it out.

My first doctor’s appointment at 7 weeks gestation was routine and the heartbeat was strong. We were relieved and felt true joy for the first time in awhile. Given what happened with my second pregnancy my doctor wanted to see me again at 10 weeks.

You never forget the moment when your doctor says your baby has no heartbeat.

I sat with that knowledge alone for several minutes. That moment of time lives in my periphery; always there in my mind but slightly out of my vision, yet always lingering. The devastation lodged itself in my chest and my brain just couldn’t fathom what was happening. To protect my husband I didn’t tell him what the doctor said, who spoke very low and only to me, in case he was wrong.

The vaginal ultrasound proved our very worst of fears. The baby measured 8.5 weeks instead of 10, and still no heartbeat. No movement.

And yet….

It seems as if somehow I already knew. I wanted this baby with all of my being, but I just had this feeling.

As if things were going too smoothly. Something just had to be wrong even though this time around I should have zero complications.

Decisions needed to be made quickly on how to proceed. An all too familiar approach.

The courage I built up in order to bring another life into this world was now crumbling into dust and floating away on the breeze.

And now I have to learn how to let go.

Again.

Join me on my path back to hope~