A dear friend of mine is going through the loss of a baby at 13 weeks pregnant. As I was thinking about my own experience with this, I realized I hadn't shared my story on here. I actually haven't written it out at all. As I think about and pray for my friend, memories are flooding back. So, here is my story.
On Monday, September 7, 2009 Michael and I left our tiny apartment in Bangor for a 5 night stay at Virginia Beach. We were staying right on the ocean; I was so excited for a beach vacation. Unfortunately, the forecast was less than ideal for the week. Oh well, hotel was booked and time taken off work. We were going.
Tuesday was rainy so we did a little shopping. While at Target I grabbed a pregnancy test. My period was a little late, though I didn't think too much of that, since we'd been trying to get pregnant for seven months. I'd taken countless tests during that time - ahead of my on-time period...after it should have begun but didn't. Result was always the same. NEGATIVE. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever conceive a baby.
I couldn't wait to get back to the hotel, so I took the test in a Target bathroom stall. I peed on the stick and set it on some toilet paper to read while I got cleaned up. When I finished, I glanced at the stick and saw a clear-as-day plus sign. My stomach turned over, and I looked again. The + was obvious. I giddily grabbed the stick, washed my hands, and headed out to the car where Michael was waiting.
Trying to hide my excitement, I gave him the stick and asked him to interpret the results. He looked at the results and back up at me wide-eyed. I couldn't contain my joy any longer and confirmed the positive result! We celebrated with a meal at the Cheesecake Factory.
Over the course of the week I took MANY more pregnancy tests. I think I was addicted to the thrill of that plus sign popping up or the "PREGNANT" declaration on the expensive tests. We ended up having one sunny day the whole week, but it didn't matter. I had quickly declared this vacation the best vacay ever to date.
The following Monday back at home, I called my family doctor to see about a blood test to confirm the pregnancy (because the 625 tests I took the week before we're not good enough). I picked up a script from them early Tuesday, and headed to Quest Diagnostics with Michael to get blood drawn on the way to the airport. (I was traveling to Dallas for work for a few days.)
At the airport on Thursday, on my way home, I received a call from my doctor's office. Confirmation! The nurse informed me of my hcg level and indicated it was in the normal range for how far along I was. Little did I know that I would end up being on very bad terms with my hcg levels.
Friday I was back at work. It happened to be employee appreciation day, and that afternoon we spent eating and listening to music under a tent in the parking lot. I was not exactly enjoying myself, however, since I realized earlier in the afternoon that I was spotting. I attempted to stay calm, since I had heard that it's not uncommon for spotting to occur in a healthy pregnancy. But my heart is prone to worry and fear. It was awfully difficult to behave normally.
I continued spotting through the weekend. On Sunday I decided to tell a couple friends of the pregnancy and spotting. Michael and I had decided earlier that we would tell a very small number of people prior to the end of the first trimester (13 weeks). And we would wait on telling family until the risk of miscarriage was very small. So I told these two friends the news, while asking for much prayer, with mostly fear and little celebration.
On Monday I called an OBGYN office (that another friend was going to) and spoke with a wonderful nurse who faxed a script to the hospital for a blood test to once again check my hcg levels. The following day I got the results. The level is supposed to double every two days. Based on where my level was the prior week, I knew something was wrong.
I went for another blood test on Wednesday, and following that result, the nurse scheduled me for an ultrasound at the hospital. Michael came with me, and we hoped and prayed to hear good news. By this time, there should have been a heartbeat.
But there was no heartbeat.
Part of me still was hoping for a miracle, but deep down I knew that our baby was not alive. I spent a lot of time in the breakroom at work that week, on the phone with that wonderful nurse, discussing hcg levels and blood tests and ultrasound results.
It was the longest week of my life. Waiting for something to happen. An end to something we had hoped and prayed for for such a long time.
I finally called my mom and told her in the same conversation that I was pregnant and miscarrying. And my sister. Told my boss too, in the event that I would need to leave work suddenly. So between Michael, my family, and these few other people, no one knew of the tragedy playing out in my life. Never in my life have I felt so alone.
On one hand, I didn't have to talk about it with many people. I didn't have to re-tell the same information over and over. On the other hand, I had few people praying for me and making sure I was okay. I had no visitors; my family was over a thousand miles away. I was faking being okay for a long time. We didn't make any type of announcement of it, didn't tell the church body. If it happens again someday, I don't know that I would take this very lonely road again.
The weekend came and I was still bleeding, but nothing major. My hcg level had leveled off and was barely decreasing. We had a couple in town to entertain. An applicant for the youth pastor position and his wife. Michael and I spent Saturday with them; getting to know them and showing them the area. It was an incredibly difficult day. I had started cramping and all I wanted to to was be at home curled in a ball.
Sunday rolled around and I was in charge of setting up the coffee for church. Instead of enjoying my Sunday morning, I passed the baby. What is a baby called that early in pregnancy? A fetus yet? I don't know. But I do know that was it. I was in major pain, yet off to church I went to set up. I had tried to find someone to set up for me, but no one got back to me. I came right home after setting up and spent the rest of that miserable day at home.
I went to work the next day. I guess I was thinking, what else am I going to do? I could be miserable and alone at home, or miserable but maybe a little distracted at work. Thinking back, I can't believe I didn't stay home, considering how much I was in pain physically and emotionally. But I didn't know how else to cope. I did end up going home early in the afternoon, as the pain was excruciating sitting at my desk.
The rest of the week I continued to work and get my hcg levels checked every other day. And had an appointment with the OB. My first appointment at my OB's office was to discuss a miscarriage. Ironic. And incredibly sad. I feared this was it. That perhaps I would not get pregnant again. Or that I would get pregnant again only to miscarry.
September/October 2009 was the worst time in my life (followed, ironically, by the weeks following Asher's birth...but that's a different story). Losing a baby doesn't make sense. It is not fair. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, seems to ease the pain.
I can say now, two and a half years later, the only two things that got me through that sadness in my life were God and time. I am trying to remember this now as I desperately want to ease the pain for my friend. I want to say something that will help or email her the perfect scripture for the situation. But there just isn't. But, thankfully, there is living on the other side of this loss.
In my story, I became pregnant with this little bundle of joy two months after losing my first baby.
