I’ve contemplated whether and how to write this one ever since I started blogging. There is a great silence in any cultures that I have experienced. Miscarriage– it is just not talked about. This is a very private topic for many, and I think also a painful topic for more people that any of us realize– both men and women
Every Mother’s Day Sunday in church for the past 11 years, with the exception of this year, I have written an anonymous prayer request, to be read in church. It usually goes something like this: “Prayers for those who cannot have children or who have suffered the loss of a child.” This past Mother’s Day I didn’t write a prayer, but instead I did cry quite a lot when our pastor read a beautifully written prayer for those who have experienced the pain of infertility, miscarriage, stillbirth, or the death of a child. My poor son was horror struck by seeing all the tears streaming down my face, as he sat next to me in the pew, and he repeatedly asked me if I was OK.
This is a difficult topic, but I feel that it is something that really need not be so silently suffered. The truth is that sometimes the process of bringing a healthy baby into the world is interrupted by tragedy.
Without the miracles of modern medical intervention, I’m not sure that I would have been able to bear any children. Infertility questions haunted the first year of our hopes to start a family. However, this difficult time was shorter lived than it could have otherwise been; thanks to the excruciating mittelschmerz ovulation pain that I often experience, it was easy for me to chart my monthly cycle and show that the second portion, post-pain was too short to successfully conceive. My OB was quite willing to allow me to try a short course of Clomid, after a year of documentation. And one month into trying the Clomid we had success. The pregnancy went smoothly, until 35 weeks, when I foolishly decided to walk a long distance to go watch July 4 fireworks with friends, downtown, when it was very warm out. 48 hours later, my water broke in the middle of the night, with no productive contractions, and no progress– not effaced at all and nearly no dialation. I was induced, and made it, on pitocin, from about 2-10cm over 10 hours before giving up on anything “natural” and asking for an epidural; 22 hours after my water broke, Andrew came into the world, at 35 weeks 5 days, skinny, but 7lbs and healthy. I was 27 years old.
Fast forward through a year and a half filled with many stories, to our hopes for a second child. Six months after again trying, and charting, with the same too short second half of my cycles, we again visited the OB; again we were given the option for me to take Clomid. Two months later, I was again cheering the positive pregnancy test. That was January of 2007, when I was 29 years old. I went in for my first OB visit at 8 weeks pregnant (and all these dates are very precise, thanks to the mittelschmerz), the pregnancy was confirmed, and I returned home to join Jason in sharing this wonderful news with our closest friends and our family. Four weeks later, I returned to the OB for my 12 week regular check-up.
Jason was unable to come to the appointment with me, as he was scheduled to give physicals for migrant farm worker children that day through the Head Start program, so I went to the doctor by myself; my mother-in-law babysat Andrew at her house. My usual and wonderful OB had left the practice, so I now had a doctor that I did not know. A nurse practitioner, and I believe a student, were there to give me my check-up. I think the student started with the jell on the belly, and the hand held ultrasound heart beat monitoring device, but she couldn’t track down the heart beat. Then the nurse practitioner tried, also with no success. The rest of the office visit is very surreal to me now. I was brought to another room, where they had more ultrasound equipment. A curtain was drawn around where I was, and a doctor, possibly a specialists, was brought in to the curtained room with me. Everyone was very quiet. The doctor told me that our baby was no longer alive, and appears to have died just after eight weeks of gestation. She talked to me for a few minutes, and gave me an entire box of Kleenex while I cried. She explained that I could wait to pass the fetus naturally at home, or come back to the office for a procedure if the passing did not go smoothly or if I did not want to wait.
And that was all. I stopped at the front desk, still crying, since I had to schedule the follow up appointment to make sure that everything passed successfully. I think someone offered to walk me to my car. I declined the company, and joined an assortment of strangers in the elevator down to the parking garage. I continued to cry.
When I was in my car, ready to drive back home, I called Jason at work. I don’t remember if I called my mother-in-law, too; I think Jason probably called everyone else after that.
When I arrived home, Jason was able to leave work, and met me at home, as did one of the two pastors from our church. We all cried, and prayed, and sat outside in our backyard, trying to wrap our heads around what had just happened.
We gradually contacted the friends and family who knew I was pregnant, and told them what had happened. For two more weeks, I continued to carry the baby, and continued in a fog of grief. Then, at home, one day, I miscarried this child. Sixteen weeks after the pregnancy had started, I returned to the OB’s office, saw someone else, and they examined me, though I really don’t remember if that involved ultrasound or what. My body was returning to normal. This was the middle of April.
By June, I was back to normal monthly cycles, and ready to try again. I switched to a different OB, who given my history was willing to allow me to use a short course of Clomid again. By October, we again had the wonderful news that I was again pregnant. And 38 weeks after that journey started, my water again broke, before contractions really started. This time, my water broke in church, the morning after a huge thunderstorm, on Pentacost and Mother’s Day. (The two only overlap once or twice every few hundred years.) Six hours later, after again being induced, Allison was born.
I write this post for all those who have silently suffered, mourned, or feel to embarrassed to talk about their experiences surrounding infertility, miscarriage, and loss of a child. Now, understanding my own health history, and understanding the needs of each of our children, I am very much at peace. This November would have been our middle child’s eight birthday, had this child lived. To my surprise, there are no more tears (with the exception of those moving prayers in church), just a sense of understanding and healing and a hope that our middle child is a sweet angel in Heaven.
For those that are still suffering their loss, I pray you, and all those who care for you, find your own gradual sense of peace and healing.
Pretty Blue Cere 