Growing up it seemed that getting pregnant was as easy as breathing. It was imbedded in us that one unprotected moment would result in your life changing forever. Which, of course, was posed as a threat more so than cautionary possibility.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered that it actually takes five and a half years, two miscarriages, and one round of Clomid to conceive.
Now, did the information provided to us on our youth have merit? Absolutely. It is scientifically easier to become pregnant the younger you are because you’re more active and healthier (as a generalization). You’re also more likely to be irresponsible, because hormones.
I learned a great many new things going through infertility and pregnancy loss. The most significant being that I was not alone. In fact, I was starting to believe there was a silent majority of us women who had a lot more in common than we knew but were just too ashamed to share it.
So I started sharing my own story.
I wanted other women struggling with getting pregnant and/or staying pregnant to not feel so alone.
The First Cut Is the Deepest
I was never as innocent as that Saturday morning in March of 2015.
I was up early, knowing I wanted to test before we left to celebrate my sister’s birthday. A couple of days late, I couldn’t fall back asleep if I tried.
I kept my expectations realistic but cautiously optimistic as I watched the digital hourglass flashing on the screen. Three minutes in the grand scheme of a day is not a long time, but when you’re waiting to find out if your entire life is about to change, it’s an eternity.
Then there it was in digital font, “Pregnant 1-2 weeks.”
In an instant, everything shifted and I was no longer living for myself. There was another lifeform entirely dependent on me, and I was ready for it.
I had always known I wanted to be a mom.
Ruining any plans of a lovely surprise, I sprinted from the bathroom with tears in my eyes, exclaiming, “Baby, we’re pregnant!”
The inability to keep the news to myself continued throughout the rest of the day. After spilling the beans to my sister, she promptly requested I take another test “as her birthday present.”
Another resounding “pregnant.”
After doing some quick math, I calculated my due date to be just after Thanksgiving. Hello, holiday season on maternity leave!
I started pinning fall-themed baby shower ideas (Pumpkin Spice and Everything Nice) and planning Christmas-themed Newborn Photos (newborns in stockings, I can’t even), which I would use as late Christmas Cards/Birth Announcements.
Rather than carry a bouquet down the aisle, I would hold my six-month-old.
It’s impressive how much life can be planned during a Sunday morning lie-in.
I naively dove headfirst into the joy of a first-time pregnancy.
If you subscribe to the popular opinion of the internet, waiting until after the first trimester to announce a pregnancy is best.
My husband and I shared the news with our immediate families right away. In blissful ignorance, we bought the baby photo frames and wrapped them for personal delivery.
Everyone was happy and excited for the new addition to our family.
Life went on as usual, working and planning our wedding. We scheduled our engagement photos for June and continued to ride the blissful wave.
I had little to no pregnancy symptoms. It never concerned me because I knew plenty of other women that had uncomplicated pregnancies.
It wasn’t until my first doctor’s appointment that things changed.
Sitting in the exam room waiting for our first doctor’s appointment to begin, I had no fear. We were there to confirm the pregnancy, hear the heartbeat, and lock in our due date.
I lay back in the most uncomfortably exposed position, and the doctor began probing.
It seemed to take longer than expected to locate the embryo. I anxiously watched the monitor expecting to see a little bean. I’d seen enough early ultrasounds to know what to expect.
It looked like an empty hole.
The doctor said it was called a yolk sac, which meant I was probably not as far along as they had thought, but she wanted to have the chief doctor look at the photos.
So we waited.
It felt like forever before the doctor returned and dropped a bombshell, leaving me feeling like the wind had been knocked out of me. I’m sure there were other things that she was saying, but I heard: “I’m not saying this is an abnormal pregnancy, but you should be aware of the signs of miscarriage…”
I stopped retaining new information after that.
I’m sure they are obligated to be vague to try not to panic expectant mothers, but unfortunately, I’m the queen of playing out worst-case scenarios on very little information. The realization that this wasn’t a normal pregnancy was now nesting in my brain.
They wanted me back in two weeks to re-evaluate the situation as I would be further along.
I was at work when it started.
I called the advice nurse, who was about as unconcerned and unhelpful as anyone could be. She described in great detail what she thought I should be concerned about and offered, “Relax, there is nothing you can do, and hopefully, it will all work itself out,” as reassurance.
I left early that day and called in the next morning. There was no way I was going to be an effective employee. My husband chose to stay home with me.
I spent my time searching the internet for stories of positive outcomes in similar situations. I prayed a lot and remained hopeful.
However, things quickly escalated to the point I couldn’t deny the truth anymore.
Two days later, I was in the hospital getting poked, prodded, and placated with more, “I’m not saying it’s an abnormal pregnancy, but your cervix is still closed, so you aren’t miscarrying tonight.”
I had blood drawn to check my HCG levels and scheduled a second blood draw in a couple of days to compare. I was to make an appointment with Radiology to get a more extensive ultrasound in the next couple of days.
The days brought hope, and the nights brought pain and anguish. Deep down, I knew everything we were doing was in vain, but I had to do everything I could, including not taking pain meds.
Amid everything, we had our engagement shoot.
Already months behind on having them done, I insisted we still take them as scheduled. So that morning we got up, got dressed, and went to have our photos taken.
For 20 minutes we got to forget about what was happening and be in love.
Afterward, it was back to the doctor’s office and back into the darkness.
I lay there, for what felt like an excessive amount of time, with a foreign object in the most uncomfortable place being navigated by a total stranger in silence. All I could hear was the clicking of the keyboard as she typed and saved photos. It wasn’t until she excused herself to let me dress that I was informed I wouldn’t know anything until my appointment three days later.
I had my blood drawn and we went home with no answers.
I got the phone call the next day. It was one of the doctors I’d seen when I was in the hospital, and she had my results.
It was official; I was miscarrying.
My HCG levels dropped from over 2000 on Saturday night to 400 Monday afternoon. The ultrasound showed everything moving toward the bottom of my uterus.
There was no longer hope; there was just reality.
I managed to keep it together on the phone and get the information on what to expect going forward but as soon as I hung up there was no holding back. I don’t remember the last time I cried so hard I threw up.
My feelings were a confusing cocktail of sadness, anger, confusion, and ultimately relief. The back-and-forth emotional whiplash was over.
It would be another two years before we got pregnant again.
