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Life & Family• September 4, 2018

A Tough Post

So, I had been planning to post today to announce that I was 3 months pregnant with Henry’s sibling- finally.  Instead, on Friday at our ultrasound, I found out we had lost the baby. I pondered whether or not to even say anything here, as this loss is big and brutal and messy, but I have found in the past 12 years of blogging, that whenever I open up about my personal struggles, you guys tend to be one of the most uplifting sources of support and reassurance. Yes, it’s uncomfortable. Yes, it may seem too personal. But here I am. And I know I am not alone in my loss or pain.  And not feeling alone is one of the best ways to heal, in my experience.

This loss blindsided us. We had already seen a heartbeat and gotten the results of our genetic testing which came back all negative.  So while I had this nagging feeling of worry and dread since 8 weeks, I chalked it up to the trauma and stress of having lost two other pregnancies this year in my quest to expand my family.  But the old adage of “mother’s instinct” was unfortunately true. And as I sat there in the waiting room, with Andrew promising me it was all going to be okay, there was no need to worry,  I was terrified. And as it turns out rightfully so.

The worst part was that waiting for me at home was a gender reveal balloon.  We had been planning a little party for this weekend to find out.  Andrew called our nanny and had her get rid of it before I got home, but not before asking what it was.

A girl.

I’ve been numb all weekend, and instead of my fun party with pink confetti, I spent it getting surgery in the hospital and trying to recover. Although, while I may physically recover, this one will be incredibly difficult to heal from emotionally. This was our last frozen embryo from Henry’s cycle, when I was 35, and now at 39 I know another cycle may not yield the same results.  Of course, I can’t get too deep into that thinking yet, as I need a few months to heal and get back on my feet– but I tend to deal with things like this by planning a mode of attack to try again. It helps me.

I know 39 isn’t “the end”, medicine has proved that to be true.  And I know from my doctor and the knowledge and data we’ll gain from this loss and others, we can form a plan. All hope is not lost, even though right now it feels that way in my heart and head. I think I have one more run at this in me. I don’t feel “done” yet, unless the doctors tell me I’m done. There are more tests to run, lifestyle changes I can make and alternative treatments I deemed myself “too busy’ to do this past time around. Not that I blame myself for the loss, it was clearly something genetic, but there are things I can do to be healthier in general.  And while my body is so tired and beat up from the constant hormones and pregnancies, it is stronger than I give it credit for.

Henry makes this time both easier and much sadder. I so desperately want him to have a sibling, he would be the best big brother on earth.  And I know there are other methods by which we can accomplish that- but that is something I will need to consider in my own time.  I know how lucky to have him, he is a wonderful, sweet, beautiful boy and I get to be his mama and that is a huge privilege.  I know there are women who have been through all the losses I’ve been through (and more) and don’t have a child yet.  And my heart breaks for them too.  It feels so unfair that some people get pregnant so easily, while others have to fight so hard and wear themselves down to the bone to yield the same results. But that is life, it’s not fair.

I have an incredible team of doctors working to help me and friends and family who are here to help and listen. But you guys are here too, and for that I am grateful as well. So thanks for listening and let me vent and write through this experience.  It always helps me, and I hope it helps others too who may be going through infertility or miscarriage as well.  It’s a particularly awful kind of hell to go through, and one that isn’t talked about much, so I hope that by opening up myself, others will feel okay talking about it too.  This battle is lonely, even with the biggest group of supporters, so every voice helps.

Last night as I put Henry to bed he touched my face and and said “you’re my best friend” and while it broke my heart, it healed it a little too.  I have my boy, who I need to be present for, and who knows what else may come. Maybe nothing, maybe something- but either way, I’ve won the lottery in many respects.

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