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In Memory of Our Beloved Little OneJan 26 '06 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line Everyone deals with miscarriage in their own way. The loss is heartbreaking. It has been a while since our miscarriage, and I've had some time to heal. For a while afterward I couldn't bear to talk about it with anyone. Now, a month before my new baby's first birthday, it just feels like the right time to share the story of the little sibling my two sons never got a chance to meet. Maybe my story will help others, and maybe it will help my own wounds heal a little bit more. When I got pregnant with my first child I was a bundle of nerves. There were problems with infertility and the inability to carry a baby to term on both sides of my family, so I was fairly nervous about it until we passed that scary first trimester and until I could feel the baby moving on a regular basis. When my first child was born completely healthy and problem-free my husband and I both assumed that meant any subsequent pregnancies would go just as easily. When the time came to try for our second child, we felt like old pros at this whole pregnancy thing. I was 33, still a few years shy of the "high risk pregnancy" mark, and we were really hoping our kids would end up being 3 years apart (seemed like that would make them far enough apart to not directly compete with each other, but close enough that they could have fun together). So just like clockwork, we got pregnant and we were so thrilled. The timing was just perfect - the baby was due to be born October 2004 and would be right at 3 years apart from my eldest child. The business I worked for was in the process of being sold, but it would work out perfectly for me to take a full maternity leave and come back before the business changed hands (as we were afraid there would be a big layoff after the new owners took over). Everything couldn't be more perfect! Of course, nothing in life is perfect. Immediately this pregnancy was different than my first. I had never experienced real "morning sickness" until my second pregnancy. It was awful. I was trying to do the whole "don't tell everyone until you're past the 3-months mark" thing, but I simply couldn't hide the pregnancy this time because I was so sick. I ended up telling a few of my closest co-workers that I was pregnant so they would understand why I went running for the bathroom throughout the day and why I had absolutely no energy. Still, I figured this was a short bit of suffering and well worth it for my baby... When the 10 week checkup rolled around I was so excited. I usually go to my doctor's appointments by myself, but my husband likes to come along for the "big deal" appointments like hearing the heartbeat for the first time and the 20-week ultrasound, so he accompanied me to the 10 week appointment hoping to hear the baby's heartbeat. My doctor tried to find the heartbeat but couldn't. If anything this was expected -- she couldn't find my first child's heartbeat at 10 weeks either, so we had gotten an ultrasound. I remembered that one vividly -- my firstborn looked somewhat like a little pea, but you could see his heart beating strongly at 10 weeks. For pregnancy #2 my doctor even said that this baby was probably just like his or her big brother, and that I could just go home if I wanted because she was sure everything was fine, but I could choose to get an ultrasound if I wanted to see the baby. I'm not one to pass up an opportunity to see my baby, but even so I had a feeling in the back of my brain that something was wrong. I wanted that ultrasound to prove to myself that I was being silly and that my baby was fine. So my husband and I went upstairs to get the ultrasound, not really expecting anything to be different than my older son's 10 week ultrasound. I saw on the screen when the technician found my baby. If anything, this baby looked even bigger than my firstborn had looked at 10 weeks, but I could see one other difference too - no heartbeat. With the memory of my first child's 10 week ultrasound planted firmly in my mind, I told myself that I was being silly. After all I'm no doctor and certainly no pro at reading ultrasounds, but it became obvious that the technician was moving the wand over and over my baby's outline as though she was searching for something. I figured I would calmly ask, "What's wrong?", and was shocked to hear my own voice ask the question in a hysterical, barely controlled tone. Obviously she could tell that I knew something was wrong, so she didn't try to make me go get the news from my doctor. "I'm sorry," she started to say, and I knew that I didn't want to hear the rest. She told me that my baby had passed away very recently, because he/she was measuring at nearly 10 weeks, but there was no heartbeat. I know that I was in shock. My husband and I had left the house that morning expecting the day to be a happy day - hear the baby's heartbeat or see the baby on the ultrasound. We were totally unprepared for this. We went back downstairs to see my doctor, who was just as surprised as we were. Then she went about the sad business of explaining our options. She told me that my baby had died through no fault of my own, and that nothing I had done could have killed the baby. I hadn't even thought that at that point, but it is probably a good thing that she said it because I did go through a phase of trying to remember if I had done anything that might have put my baby in jeopardy. She then explained that my body hadn't figured out that the baby had died, and that this is often termed a "missed miscarriage". If my body did finally figure it out, she said that my baby was big enough that a natural miscarriage would be quite bloody, and that I may end up in the hospital needing a transfusion. The chances were good that my body might not figure out that the baby had passed away. She recommended that I come back in for a D&C (dilation & curettage) to remove my baby's remains and let my body go back to normal so my husband and I could start trying again. My doctor was wonderful. She was thoughtful and empathetic. She treated us with care and respect. However all of this was too much to think about as I was still reeling from the news that my baby had died. Died! My baby! She was telling me that I needed to have my baby removed! How could she!?! I didn't want my baby removed. This baby was wanted! This baby was loved! I didn't want anyone to take my little angel away! We agreed to do the D&C the next day. We did a lot of crying that night. The next morning was awful. I woke up and dealt with my morning sickness, as usual, but this time I was cursing my body for being sick for a baby who was getting no benefit from my sickness. My husband took me to the hospital for the procedure. My legs froze up outside the building because I simply did not want to go in. I didn't want them to take my baby. Maybe if I ran away with the baby his heart would start beating again. Maybe the technician was wrong and she just didn't look in the right place for the heartbeat. I cried throughout the wait before the procedure, and all of the nurses took pity on me. I didn't want to be there, and I didn't want anyone to touch me. I wanted to protect my child. Someone finally pushed some medicine into my IV, saying "this will make you not care anymore for a little while", and I drifted into unconsciousness. I awoke a short time later and immediately felt empty. As soon as I regained consciousness I burst into tears, and told the nurse that the medicine to make me not care anymore must have worn off. My doctor came to meet with me again, and explained that although most doctors prefer the term "missed miscarriage", the hospital puts it on the paperwork as a "missed abortion", and she didn't want me reading that later and getting upset about it. I later found out that a co-worker's wife also had a missed-miscarriage and required a D&C, and the insurance company refused to pay the claim, coldly stating "we don't cover abortions" and sending his wife into hysterics. He angrily called them back to explain how a "missed abortion" was something different. It is still hard to think about. It has been over a year since we lost our little one, and I will never be completely over the loss. Truth be told, I don't want to be over it. I always want to remember our lost little one. Even though we never got to meet, he/she will always be my baby, and he/she was loved. The loss was both easier and harder to take with my older child there. Someone still needed to care for him, so I couldn't wallow in my grief, however he's such a wonderful kid that just being around him made the knowledge that we had lost his sibling just that much harder to bear. Every cute/adorable/wonderful thing he did made us yearn to see what adorable things our second child could have done. Still, having him there to hug made life better. My (very wonderful and understanding) boss gave me a week off to grieve. My dear co-workers, the ones I had told when I was fighting morning sickness, had a big bunch of flowers sent to my house. I took a close-up picture of one of the beautiful buds, then overlaid that picture with a poem from one of the miscarriage books my doctor had given me. The poem (originally written by Dorothy Ferguson, but I changed it slightly to better match our situation) reads: How very softly you tiptoed into our world. You only stayed a moment, but what an imprint your footsteps have left upon our hearts. The picture with the poem overlay sits proudly on our entertainment center along with other family pictures. Our little lost angel will always have a place in our home and in our hearts. My story does have a happy ending. My doctor told me to wait 3 months to let my body reset before trying again. We were able to get pregnant as soon as that time was up. Every time I had a doctor's appointment my blood pressure would be off the scale until I heard baby's heartbeat, after which I would settle down. My appointments always started with baby's vitals first, mine second. I gave birth to a happy, healthy baby boy, who is wonderful in every way. Everyone is different, and everyone deals with a miscarriage in their own way. There are good online support groups for people who like to reach out for comfort during such times. Sometimes it is good to speak with people who have had similar experiences. I was one who wanted to ball up into myself and not talk with anyone. I was very lucky, from the ultrasound technician to my doctor to the nurses at the hospital, everyone was sympathetic but not overbearing, helpful without being condescending. My husband and I are still coping with the loss (although admittedly having our new baby certainly helped heal a lot of our wounds). It is a horrible thing to go through and a devastating loss, but you can make it through. If I can do it anyone can.  |
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