When Pregnancy Doesn’t Go as Planned: My Story – part 4

As promised, I’m sharing part of my story with you with you this week.  Because I believe story matters.  If you missed it, you can find Part 1 here.

For the very first time in the events of the past week, my husband and I had hope.  We didn’t have a plan, but we had hope.  Odd and completely unexpected hope.

 

Our close friends and family, who knew of the unexpected trials of our past week, also knew of what was supposed to be our first and final trip to the OB-GYN and were awaiting news that I was back on track to being happy, healthy, and not passing out.  No one, however, was expecting news that I was pregnant.

Throughout the past week, we had been praying.  Praying for healing and praying for discernment.  Personally, I may have also been praying 1) that I might be able to go to the bathroom by myself in the near future and 2) for a plan. Not even kidding.

Anyhow, there was a heartbeat and I was pregnant.  But, the news was not all sunshine and roses.  The pregnancy did not look quite right.  The amniotic sac that the baby makes a cozy little nest in appeared to be jagged and torn on one side.

The jagged and torn is what seemed to be causing all the bleeding.  Although they would never be able to tell for certain because I did not have an early ultrasound, it appeared as though there may have been two sacks, two nests, and one was torn away.

Planner types, process this.  Unexpected pregnancy, unexpected miscarriage, unexpected pregnancy while miscarrying a twin and still pregnant.  Clearly, it’s difficult to make plans in days like these.

So we left the doctor’s office with a huge warning to be cautious, not get our hopes up.  This did not appear to be a “viable” pregnancy.  Odds were that my body would miscarry this baby in the near future.  And we were given an appointment to return in a few days for another ultrasound.

Not get my hopes up.

I’m like a 5 year old when it comes to that.  I’m all about getting my hopes up.  I’ve learned the hard way that you don’t mention to your kids “we might have ice cream later” or “we might go swimming later” because as soon as those words leave your mouth, hopes. are. up.

I’m not all that different.  So together with friends and family, we prayed that this baby would live.  And we hoped.

 

 

We went to the next appointment.  And there was a heartbeat.  The next appointment.  And there was a heartbeat.  Each time the doctors would make the next appointment just a few days out, a week at the very most.  Although there was always a heartbeat, there was also always more bleeding and still the jagged and torn baby nest.

It is a strange feeling to keep showing up to appointments where the doctors are essentially waiting for your body to miscarry.  Waiting, it seems, for your baby to die.  They speak in softer, more serious voices.   As if volume or a smile might leak hope.  Painful hope.

 

This was a tough time for my hoping heart.  I wanted to hope, but I wanted to hedge my bets as well.  I wanted to believe that this baby would be okay but I wanted to soften the blow, prepare myself for the fall, just in case it wasn’t.

That very struggle may have been the hardest part of it all.  Harder than then physical weakness, the anemia that was setting in. Harder than being scared to go out in public because I tended to have these crazy and unexpected bleeding bursts that would make any time of the month accident seem trivial, staining couch cushions and demanding that I find a bathroom immediately.  I had a towel permanently installed on the seat of my car and pads in every compartment of purses and glove boxes.

I remember getting pulled over by a cop once during this mess and opening the glove box to a treasure trove of heavy flow maxi pads that shot out like a jack in the box, at which point the whole thing just set me off to bawling – I’m talking the ugly cry, kind of bawling – about this mess of a pregnancy, right in front of the cop.  That poor cop got more than he bargained for pulling me over.  No doubt he was questioning my sanity more than my driving ability.  Of course, I didn’t get a ticket.  So there’s always that to add to your repertoire of ways to get out of a speeding ticket if you were needing one.

Anyhow, the days and the appointments went on.  Still we prayed like crazy.  The doctors, still waiting for a miscarriage began to soften their stance as we made it to 10 weeks, 13 weeks, 16 weeks.  They lengthened the time between appointments to every two weeks.

 

Finally, we reached 20 weeks.  Half way through the pregnancy.  The appointment at which we got to pretend that this was all quite normal, as we had an ultrasound simply to determine the sex of our fighter of a baby.

I was giddy for this.  My first baby was a boy and I loved that kid fiercely, but my heart was wild to have a girl. I’m a girly girl in almost every way and the sight of those pink baby dresses put me over the top.  Oh, how I had hoped for the chance to raise a baby girl.

But as soon as that ultrasound tech put her little wand on my bulging belly, everything changed.  I’d been through this routine more than enough times to know something looked wrong.  Still a heartbeat, but something very wrong.  My husband knew it. I knew it.  The seriousness of the ultrasound tech’s face showed it.  Everything in the room screamed it and no one had even said a word.  Eerie silence.

Then the ultrasound tech, in her bravest voice said, “please excuse me.  I need to get the doctor”.