Many people in the support group forums online talked about taking time to make sure you're mentally ready to try again after a miscarriage. I didn't ponder this concept too much initially, mostly because all I wanted was to be pregnant again. It was all I could think about. Get pregnant again ASAP. Because that should fast track the mental healing and help me move on from my loss, yes? Well, yes and no. Yes, because getting pregnant again meant achieving the goal we had set out to achieve. No, because getting pregnant again didn't change the fact that I had lost my first baby. In hindsight, it wasn't so much that I should've been mentally prepared to get pregnant again; I should've mentally prepared to miscarry again. Because that's exactly what happened.
I jumped right back on the horse of tracking cycles, ovulation, recording symptoms, and all that. It felt defeating to go back to square one, but I also felt more motivated than ever in that "if I get pregnant again all my problems will be solved" kind of way. It felt like it took forever, but in less than a year, I got pregnant again. I remember getting my positive test the morning we were supposed to go to a New Years Day brunch with friends. My husband suggested skipping it, but I figured it being New Years Day was the perfect cover for not drinking that Bloody Mary. (i.e. too hungover from NYE festivities...and yes, my mind went there, having had drinks with little restraint that night)
I wasn't able to schedule my first ultrasound with my OBGYN until I was what I calculated to be around 12 weeks along because she was booked up until then. I was initially a little anxious that I'd have to wait that long to see my baby for the first time, but hey, lightning doesn't strike the same place twice, right? Plus, if I made it to that appointment, I'd have made it through the first trimester, which would be a huge win for me. I was optimistic.
I even got to the point where I had to buy a couple of pairs of maternity leggings because some of my pants no longer fit, which was a milestone in and of itself. I was confident that things were going to be smooth sailing, especially since most of the articles I'd read about miscarriage indicated that while miscarriages are common, the chances of miscarrying twice are pretty low. I guess I just defied the odds on that statistic, huh? Fucking overachiever, right here.
When I finally did go in for my ultrasound, it was the most surreal shit I'd ever experienced. Here I was, triumphantly thinking I had reached 12 weeks and out of the first trimester danger zone, and there was the ultrasound tech: quiet and solemn, yet again. When she told me the baby was measuring at only 8 weeks and there was no heartbeat, I just nodded and said ok. She said sorry, told me to get dressed and said she'd get my doc to come and talk to me. When I was putting my pants back on in the bathroom, I just sat on a chair and took deep breaths. I wasn't to the point of crying yet; I just sat there trying to accept that this was real life and this goddamn nightmare was happening AGAIN.
When my doc went through the same scenarios as before for the next step, she made the comment that I seemed rather stoic about the news of this second miscarriage. I replied that I preferred to lose my shit in private at home, rather than in her office. She accepted this with kindness, and she informed me that she could, again, perform a D&C the next day, which I chose to do.
Calling my husband again, to break the news and find out if he could drive me to and from the D&C was pretty fucked up for me. I can only imagine the disappointment he felt for himself but mostly for me. Again, he apologized and said he was sorry for me, as if it was still just my loss and not his, too. But I'm sure to have this happen twice in a row was devastating for him as well. He just did a better job of not showing it.
All over again, we had to tell our friends and family, and it was a little different this time, because when I had found out I was pregnant, we shared the news with people right away, instead of waiting for the first trimester to pass. My reasoning for this: if I was destined to go through another miscarriage (which I was sure would never happen in a million years), I was going to go through it with everyone knowing and supporting me, instead of feeling completely alone like I had with the first one. Besides, I had told my husband at the time, if miscarriage is going to happen again, it'll happen whether we keep the pregnancy a secret or not. My husband did wait what I thought was an exceptionally long time to tell his family about this second miscarriage. I brought it up several times in the interim, and his reasoning was that he didn't want to go through the unpleasantness of having to break that news until we absolutely had to. I pointed out that telling them was inevitable and maybe they would be upset that we didn't tell them right away. But I didn't push it because it was his loss, his family and he was entitled to deal with it in whatever way he chose.
We had a fetal karyotype done on the remains to determine why the baby didn't survive. The results came back showing a chromosomal abnormality. The results also informed us that this fetus had been a girl. Fuck. A little baby girl. Learning this information only made the pain that much worse. And the icing on that turd cake was that I had to find this shit out while I was out of town for work. I learned the sex of my baby late at night, alone in a hotel room in St. Louis, and I felt like someone had shot me. I sat in the bathroom that night and cried for a really long time.
So, obviously something's probably wrong with me and/or my husband, right? How does someone in good general health have two miscarriages in a fucking row? At the recommendation of my doc, I consulted with a genetic counselor, and then both myself and my husband had our chromosomes tested to try and find an explanation for the chromosomal abnormality that came up in the fetal karyotype. Everything came back normal with the chromosome test, go figure. No answers there, and all my hormone levels tested normal. So, essentially, there was no real explanation for why we'd had two miscarriages. It was just one of those cruel flukes of nature.
My doc also said she'd refer me to a reproductive endocrinologist if I cared to speak with one, though she indicated that was probably more on par with considering fertility treatments, which was a whole other beast. I declined to do so at this time. Fertility treatments like IVF were not in our plans; if we couldn't get pregnant on our own, than we would just accept and live with it. I mean, even if we could afford IVF, it's not like it's a sure thing. Plus, that just seemed like this whole other ballpark, and I had never really considered going that far for a baby. And again, the cost. Gah.
So that was it. We were back at the starting line, and my husband and I had a conversation about whether we wanted to try again, lest we suffer a third loss. Not that another loss wouldn't be heartbreaking, but I kind of felt like it was worth trying again because even if I did miscarry a third time, I had become a fucking pro at it (lucky me) and knew what to expect. My husband said he would do whatever I felt comfortable with, so we agreed to try one more time, two at the most.
Obviously the next chapter in Operation Baby was a happy one, as we did get pregnant again several months later. And this time, I stayed pregnant all the way to the finish line.
I wasn't able to schedule my first ultrasound with my OBGYN until I was what I calculated to be around 12 weeks along because she was booked up until then. I was initially a little anxious that I'd have to wait that long to see my baby for the first time, but hey, lightning doesn't strike the same place twice, right? Plus, if I made it to that appointment, I'd have made it through the first trimester, which would be a huge win for me. I was optimistic.
I even got to the point where I had to buy a couple of pairs of maternity leggings because some of my pants no longer fit, which was a milestone in and of itself. I was confident that things were going to be smooth sailing, especially since most of the articles I'd read about miscarriage indicated that while miscarriages are common, the chances of miscarrying twice are pretty low. I guess I just defied the odds on that statistic, huh? Fucking overachiever, right here.
When I finally did go in for my ultrasound, it was the most surreal shit I'd ever experienced. Here I was, triumphantly thinking I had reached 12 weeks and out of the first trimester danger zone, and there was the ultrasound tech: quiet and solemn, yet again. When she told me the baby was measuring at only 8 weeks and there was no heartbeat, I just nodded and said ok. She said sorry, told me to get dressed and said she'd get my doc to come and talk to me. When I was putting my pants back on in the bathroom, I just sat on a chair and took deep breaths. I wasn't to the point of crying yet; I just sat there trying to accept that this was real life and this goddamn nightmare was happening AGAIN.
When my doc went through the same scenarios as before for the next step, she made the comment that I seemed rather stoic about the news of this second miscarriage. I replied that I preferred to lose my shit in private at home, rather than in her office. She accepted this with kindness, and she informed me that she could, again, perform a D&C the next day, which I chose to do.
Calling my husband again, to break the news and find out if he could drive me to and from the D&C was pretty fucked up for me. I can only imagine the disappointment he felt for himself but mostly for me. Again, he apologized and said he was sorry for me, as if it was still just my loss and not his, too. But I'm sure to have this happen twice in a row was devastating for him as well. He just did a better job of not showing it.
All over again, we had to tell our friends and family, and it was a little different this time, because when I had found out I was pregnant, we shared the news with people right away, instead of waiting for the first trimester to pass. My reasoning for this: if I was destined to go through another miscarriage (which I was sure would never happen in a million years), I was going to go through it with everyone knowing and supporting me, instead of feeling completely alone like I had with the first one. Besides, I had told my husband at the time, if miscarriage is going to happen again, it'll happen whether we keep the pregnancy a secret or not. My husband did wait what I thought was an exceptionally long time to tell his family about this second miscarriage. I brought it up several times in the interim, and his reasoning was that he didn't want to go through the unpleasantness of having to break that news until we absolutely had to. I pointed out that telling them was inevitable and maybe they would be upset that we didn't tell them right away. But I didn't push it because it was his loss, his family and he was entitled to deal with it in whatever way he chose.
We had a fetal karyotype done on the remains to determine why the baby didn't survive. The results came back showing a chromosomal abnormality. The results also informed us that this fetus had been a girl. Fuck. A little baby girl. Learning this information only made the pain that much worse. And the icing on that turd cake was that I had to find this shit out while I was out of town for work. I learned the sex of my baby late at night, alone in a hotel room in St. Louis, and I felt like someone had shot me. I sat in the bathroom that night and cried for a really long time.
So, obviously something's probably wrong with me and/or my husband, right? How does someone in good general health have two miscarriages in a fucking row? At the recommendation of my doc, I consulted with a genetic counselor, and then both myself and my husband had our chromosomes tested to try and find an explanation for the chromosomal abnormality that came up in the fetal karyotype. Everything came back normal with the chromosome test, go figure. No answers there, and all my hormone levels tested normal. So, essentially, there was no real explanation for why we'd had two miscarriages. It was just one of those cruel flukes of nature.
My doc also said she'd refer me to a reproductive endocrinologist if I cared to speak with one, though she indicated that was probably more on par with considering fertility treatments, which was a whole other beast. I declined to do so at this time. Fertility treatments like IVF were not in our plans; if we couldn't get pregnant on our own, than we would just accept and live with it. I mean, even if we could afford IVF, it's not like it's a sure thing. Plus, that just seemed like this whole other ballpark, and I had never really considered going that far for a baby. And again, the cost. Gah.
So that was it. We were back at the starting line, and my husband and I had a conversation about whether we wanted to try again, lest we suffer a third loss. Not that another loss wouldn't be heartbreaking, but I kind of felt like it was worth trying again because even if I did miscarry a third time, I had become a fucking pro at it (lucky me) and knew what to expect. My husband said he would do whatever I felt comfortable with, so we agreed to try one more time, two at the most.
Obviously the next chapter in Operation Baby was a happy one, as we did get pregnant again several months later. And this time, I stayed pregnant all the way to the finish line.
