Showing posts with label pregnancy loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy loss. Show all posts
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Are we done?
A couple weeks ago marked five years since we first found out we were pregnant. Five years. Wow. In some ways, it seems like just the blink of an eye. At the same time, it seems like a lifetime ago. Since then, we have lost two children to miscarriage, lost a grandfather and stepfather, parented and lost three great kiddos, moved three times, had three different jobs, and gained quite an extra 25 pounds each that we are trying to take off. So the question is, are we done? Do we plan on parenting any more kids? Biological? Adoptive? If the answer is no, which I think it is. Isn't 31 really early to decide you aren't going to have anymore kids? Do we take a surgical route to make sure we won't ever be pregnant again? If we decide to have surgery, then we eliminate all changes of us having biological children. We really and truly will never pass along our genes. We will never experience the first kicks of a child we created. We will never see which traits of ours got passed along. We will never get to pick names and decide if we want to find out the gender or be surprised when the baby is born. On the other hand, my kids are enough for me. Although I don't want to to be "left out" of those experiences, I don't want to parent another child. It all sounds so selfish when I write it all out, but it is really something to think about.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Bad Memories
When I was a first-time expectant mother, life was full of possibilities. We became pregnant right away, and we were thrilled! I had taken the day off work to have a mental health day with my best friend who was moving to Georgia. When she got to my house, I told her I wasn't feeling well. I decided to take a pregnancy test, and it was positive! I am a worrier, so I called the doctor and had a blood draw just to make sure. Then I called my husband at work, and we promised not to tell anyone else until it was safe. By the time he got home, he had already told his work friends, so we decided to tell our "circle." We knew that some people have miscarriages, but we really didn't know anyone that had happened to. I vividly remember a hailstorm sometime that week, and my husband was outside watching. I told him to be careful, and he quipped, "I am a father now. I can do anything!" We were invincible.
Appointments came and went, and then we had a regular checkup. I hadn't gained any weight and the nurse couldn't find a heartbeat. That happens sometimes, they told us. So we had an ultrasound. When the tech said nothing, we knew it was over. I was supposed to go golfing with my dad. I had plans for lunch. They all stopped. After they moved us to a different room, we heard the doctor talking to a colleague outside the door about how she hated this part of her job. I told my husband we had lost the baby, but he was still being optimistic. When she finally came in, we were really just in shock. After she left, I did the required blood work. My husband, trying to be an optimist still, said, "Well, we weren't sure we could afford daycare, so maybe it will be okay." As we rode the elevator down, it was immensely symbolic. We arrived full of hope and left with sinking emotions. It was all too much. I passed out right there. When we arrived home, I was able to call my family and tell them what was going on. We would wait to see if my body would "take care of things" or if I would need a D&C. The next week was torture as I waited for my surgery. The only two things I really remember from that week are that my medical chart labeled the loss of my child as a spontaneous abortion and waking up from surgery and asking for my husband. The nurse told me I should still be asleep, but I very clearly explained to her that I would do whatever needed to be done to get out of there.
Since it was summer, I had no job to attend. I tried not to hate myself and my body for losing my child. I played mini golf on the Playstation and watched Food Network. I avoided my friends and prayed for time to speed up. My best friend moved away, and life continued. Wal-mart moved its baby section closer to the check out for the ease of parents. I had spent virtually my entire life checking out strollers and bassinets. My sister and I spent hours pouring over the JCPenny catalogues picking out baby items from the time we were small. Now baby paraphernalia made me burst into tears. I quit doing the shopping. If we went together, I made sure I had a plan for a quick escape. I still visited my sister-in-law. She was due with her second child the two weeks before me. I suffered through watching her grow my nephew and prepare for his arrival, a very real-time reminder of what we are missing. I tried to see a movie, Salt, with my husband. Right before the lights went out, I lost it. I had a panic attack. I am not sure I knew what it was at the time, but I felt like every patron in the theatre knew, somehow, that my child had died and I was out watching a movie.
In October, I received an invitation to a ceremony for "all parts from conceptions" from the hospital. We did not attend since I had already planned a trip to Florida, but I felt strangely uncomfortable as I vaguely remembered signing that the hospital could take care of the "remains" and that I wouldn't be there for the burial. It was easier for me to think of the miscarriage as a medical condition rather than a lost child. Avoidance and denial was the name of the game during that stage of the grief cycle.
Then we became pregnant again. I was a nervous wreck. Rather than testing biology again, I was leaning towards adoption, an option we had discussed for several years before even trying to become pregnant. My first doctor, who I really did love despite the whole situation, had switched practices. My new doctor was not willing to do the things my first doctor had discussed such as progesterone, regular heartbeat checks, and early ultrasounds. She said, "There really isn't any point in any of those things until we see if this baby lives." After that appointment, I never set food back into that practice again. I found a new doctor willing to work with and help ease my fears. The waiting room was hell. All of the very pregnant glowing mothers with their entourages in tow, finding out the sex of their child or counting down the days until the birth while holding hands lovingly. My husband and I were cowering in the corner squeezing hands tightly in fear. Blood draws and ultrasounds were a regular torture we endured. I didn't drink a sip of caffeine, I took care of myself in every possible way. I even went so far as to wear a special necklace someone had given me in order to help my body be strong. Seriously. For a month, we knew that our numbers weren't good. They were going up but not doubling. There was nothing to be done except have hope and wait. My doctor told me that things did not look promising but that she had seen all things in her time as a doctor and that nothing was beyond hope. One day we finally got a picture of our baby on the ultrasound! A real printout and everything! A few days later, on a Tuesday, I started bleeding. Since I had appointments about every three days, I had an appointment that afternoon. As I went in for an ultrasound, the necklace I had been wearing for luck fell to the ground and broke. The ultrasound tech wouldn't tell us anything, so we knew the drill. This time, instead of a surgery, I was able to miscarry on my own at home. The amount of pain was quite intense, cramping beyond belief. I imagine it is probably worse when actually giving child birth, but the adrenaline of knowing you are about to meet your child probably dulls some of the pain and allows you to make it through. Miscarriage pain is not only physical, but emotionally and mentally painful. The cramps were bringing me a bundle of joy, they were tearing my world apart again. My child was unceremoniously "passed" at home still in the egg sac and all. I am truly ashamed to say that my baby, my tiny little baby who had just become recognizable on an ultrasound, was flushed down the toilet. It took me ten minutes to write that. And now I am crying in shame. What could I have done? We lived in a town home so there was nowhere to bury him or her. There isn't a "thing" to do when you miscarry. To most people, it isn't even a baby, just tissue, nerves, and lots of blood. Was I supposed to take the "remains" to the hospital to be buried? Should I have contacted a funeral home? I still don't know what options there were. The doctor had sent me on my way, assuring me she would check in and see how I was doing. She never warned me or asked me about what was really going to happen.
I was now a "spontaneous aborter" because I had miscarried twice. What an awful phrase. As if I wasn't suffering enough from my first "spontaneous abortion," I now had a history of it. It was what I did with babies. It made me feel like a teenager sneaking into a shady clinic to meet a scary doctor to hide the evidence of my sins. I felt dirty and ashamed, like I was covered in the blood of my child, a scarlet letter of sorts.
Theses memories are the worst of the worst for me. I know there are more that I have forgotten, but after five years, these memories still remain; painful, raw, and shameful. I don't talk about them in these details. It makes people uncomfortable. I get a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes, and my blood feels thick. Bad memories.
Appointments came and went, and then we had a regular checkup. I hadn't gained any weight and the nurse couldn't find a heartbeat. That happens sometimes, they told us. So we had an ultrasound. When the tech said nothing, we knew it was over. I was supposed to go golfing with my dad. I had plans for lunch. They all stopped. After they moved us to a different room, we heard the doctor talking to a colleague outside the door about how she hated this part of her job. I told my husband we had lost the baby, but he was still being optimistic. When she finally came in, we were really just in shock. After she left, I did the required blood work. My husband, trying to be an optimist still, said, "Well, we weren't sure we could afford daycare, so maybe it will be okay." As we rode the elevator down, it was immensely symbolic. We arrived full of hope and left with sinking emotions. It was all too much. I passed out right there. When we arrived home, I was able to call my family and tell them what was going on. We would wait to see if my body would "take care of things" or if I would need a D&C. The next week was torture as I waited for my surgery. The only two things I really remember from that week are that my medical chart labeled the loss of my child as a spontaneous abortion and waking up from surgery and asking for my husband. The nurse told me I should still be asleep, but I very clearly explained to her that I would do whatever needed to be done to get out of there.
Since it was summer, I had no job to attend. I tried not to hate myself and my body for losing my child. I played mini golf on the Playstation and watched Food Network. I avoided my friends and prayed for time to speed up. My best friend moved away, and life continued. Wal-mart moved its baby section closer to the check out for the ease of parents. I had spent virtually my entire life checking out strollers and bassinets. My sister and I spent hours pouring over the JCPenny catalogues picking out baby items from the time we were small. Now baby paraphernalia made me burst into tears. I quit doing the shopping. If we went together, I made sure I had a plan for a quick escape. I still visited my sister-in-law. She was due with her second child the two weeks before me. I suffered through watching her grow my nephew and prepare for his arrival, a very real-time reminder of what we are missing. I tried to see a movie, Salt, with my husband. Right before the lights went out, I lost it. I had a panic attack. I am not sure I knew what it was at the time, but I felt like every patron in the theatre knew, somehow, that my child had died and I was out watching a movie.
In October, I received an invitation to a ceremony for "all parts from conceptions" from the hospital. We did not attend since I had already planned a trip to Florida, but I felt strangely uncomfortable as I vaguely remembered signing that the hospital could take care of the "remains" and that I wouldn't be there for the burial. It was easier for me to think of the miscarriage as a medical condition rather than a lost child. Avoidance and denial was the name of the game during that stage of the grief cycle.
Then we became pregnant again. I was a nervous wreck. Rather than testing biology again, I was leaning towards adoption, an option we had discussed for several years before even trying to become pregnant. My first doctor, who I really did love despite the whole situation, had switched practices. My new doctor was not willing to do the things my first doctor had discussed such as progesterone, regular heartbeat checks, and early ultrasounds. She said, "There really isn't any point in any of those things until we see if this baby lives." After that appointment, I never set food back into that practice again. I found a new doctor willing to work with and help ease my fears. The waiting room was hell. All of the very pregnant glowing mothers with their entourages in tow, finding out the sex of their child or counting down the days until the birth while holding hands lovingly. My husband and I were cowering in the corner squeezing hands tightly in fear. Blood draws and ultrasounds were a regular torture we endured. I didn't drink a sip of caffeine, I took care of myself in every possible way. I even went so far as to wear a special necklace someone had given me in order to help my body be strong. Seriously. For a month, we knew that our numbers weren't good. They were going up but not doubling. There was nothing to be done except have hope and wait. My doctor told me that things did not look promising but that she had seen all things in her time as a doctor and that nothing was beyond hope. One day we finally got a picture of our baby on the ultrasound! A real printout and everything! A few days later, on a Tuesday, I started bleeding. Since I had appointments about every three days, I had an appointment that afternoon. As I went in for an ultrasound, the necklace I had been wearing for luck fell to the ground and broke. The ultrasound tech wouldn't tell us anything, so we knew the drill. This time, instead of a surgery, I was able to miscarry on my own at home. The amount of pain was quite intense, cramping beyond belief. I imagine it is probably worse when actually giving child birth, but the adrenaline of knowing you are about to meet your child probably dulls some of the pain and allows you to make it through. Miscarriage pain is not only physical, but emotionally and mentally painful. The cramps were bringing me a bundle of joy, they were tearing my world apart again. My child was unceremoniously "passed" at home still in the egg sac and all. I am truly ashamed to say that my baby, my tiny little baby who had just become recognizable on an ultrasound, was flushed down the toilet. It took me ten minutes to write that. And now I am crying in shame. What could I have done? We lived in a town home so there was nowhere to bury him or her. There isn't a "thing" to do when you miscarry. To most people, it isn't even a baby, just tissue, nerves, and lots of blood. Was I supposed to take the "remains" to the hospital to be buried? Should I have contacted a funeral home? I still don't know what options there were. The doctor had sent me on my way, assuring me she would check in and see how I was doing. She never warned me or asked me about what was really going to happen.
I was now a "spontaneous aborter" because I had miscarried twice. What an awful phrase. As if I wasn't suffering enough from my first "spontaneous abortion," I now had a history of it. It was what I did with babies. It made me feel like a teenager sneaking into a shady clinic to meet a scary doctor to hide the evidence of my sins. I felt dirty and ashamed, like I was covered in the blood of my child, a scarlet letter of sorts.
Theses memories are the worst of the worst for me. I know there are more that I have forgotten, but after five years, these memories still remain; painful, raw, and shameful. I don't talk about them in these details. It makes people uncomfortable. I get a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes, and my blood feels thick. Bad memories.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Still Mothers
Tomorrow is the launch of a new group called Still Mothers.
I am very excited to be part of this project for mothers who have no biological living children. There are many facets to the group including a part for grandparents who have lost a grandchild, grieving parents who are trying to conceive, and families like our who have decided to adopt after losing a biological child. Losing a child can be a very isolating experience, so hopefully this is a great way for us all to connect and support one another. We are also on Facebook.
I am very excited to be part of this project for mothers who have no biological living children. There are many facets to the group including a part for grandparents who have lost a grandchild, grieving parents who are trying to conceive, and families like our who have decided to adopt after losing a biological child. Losing a child can be a very isolating experience, so hopefully this is a great way for us all to connect and support one another. We are also on Facebook.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
In Poor Taste
Sometimes I wonder if I am too sensitive. Well, I know I am too sensitive, but sometimes I wonder if I am offended for good reason or not. For example, a relative posted this as their Facebook status today:
Well IT'S OFFICIAL!!!!! I have some AMAZING but at the same time shocking news! I'M EXPECTING!!!!! A little under 15 weeks and counting! I know, I'm shocked too. I can hardly believe it myself. I wasn't going to post it (on Facebook) but since y'all are my family and friends, I wanted to make it official. I'm too overwhelmed to keep it a secret!!! Who would have guessed that me of all people would be expecting again!! But I am!! I am expecting Santa in just 15 weeks! Repost if you have a sense of humor. Lets see how many people read the whole status. That's why it's good to read the whole story before you go run & gossip!!!
As I said, I know I am overly sensitive, but there are many people who have been unable to have kids, have lost a child after birth, or have lost a child while pregnant. I find this offensive and not funny. It isn't a joke to pretend you are pregnant. I find posts like this to be in poor taste. I hope I have never done something offensive like this.
Now the question is, do I tell my relative how posts like this are VERY hurtful to people like me? Or do I drop it? I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but I feel like she should know.
Well IT'S OFFICIAL!!!!! I have some AMAZING but at the same time shocking news! I'M EXPECTING!!!!! A little under 15 weeks and counting! I know, I'm shocked too. I can hardly believe it myself. I wasn't going to post it (on Facebook) but since y'all are my family and friends, I wanted to make it official. I'm too overwhelmed to keep it a secret!!! Who would have guessed that me of all people would be expecting again!! But I am!! I am expecting Santa in just 15 weeks! Repost if you have a sense of humor. Lets see how many people read the whole status. That's why it's good to read the whole story before you go run & gossip!!!
As I said, I know I am overly sensitive, but there are many people who have been unable to have kids, have lost a child after birth, or have lost a child while pregnant. I find this offensive and not funny. It isn't a joke to pretend you are pregnant. I find posts like this to be in poor taste. I hope I have never done something offensive like this.
Now the question is, do I tell my relative how posts like this are VERY hurtful to people like me? Or do I drop it? I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but I feel like she should know.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
October
October is pregnancy and infant loss awareness month. It is a time to remember babies we have lost or never got to meet. I did not know about this until this year. Sometimes I wonder why I never knew about it before, and if I still wouldn't know about if I hadn't lost two babies. Some people post on Facebook, some hold remembrance celebrations, and some people do nothing at all. We fall into that last group. I am thinking back to when we were invited to a ceremony for our first baby. I had already planned a trip with my friend, so I couldn't go. I don't think we would have gone anyway because the pain was too raw. Let's face it, sometimes the pain is still too raw, and it's been 2 1/2 years. But maybe I am ready to deal with the pain rather than run away from it. Or maybe thinking about the pregnancy loss is easier than thinking about having my foster child leave in a few weeks. Whatever the case, I hope that we find a way that less people can be affected by pregnancy and infant loss in the future. It is a loss beyond losing the life of a child. It is losing your dreams as well. Dreams of a family, dreams of happy pregnancies in the future, dreams of showers and nurseries and Christmas cards. It is good to have a time to remember and reflect so that we can move forward and hope.
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