Worth the Wait
By the time I reached my early 30s, I believed it was unlikely I would have kids. I wasn’t dating anyone, and I knew that being a single parent wasn’t the path for me. I was lucky to have many nieces and nephews, and I embraced that there were a lot of ways to have kids in my life. At that time, I wanted a dog more than a kid, so I adopted a rescue puppy and named her Coco. Then I met and started dating Joe, and I realized I wanted to have kids with him.
Andy was born 14 months after we got married. Being pregnant with him was one of the best experiences of my life. I felt better than I ever had, which I was grateful for, because I knew plenty of women, including my sister, whose pregnancies were far from easy. I didn’t care that mine was a geriatric pregnancy, because I was over 35; that I had gestational diabetes and had to learn to count carbs; or that Andy decided to arrive a week before we were scheduled to be induced. I knew the first time I held him that all of that and more was worth it. When I was pregnant with him, the thought never crossed my mind that I wouldn’t be holding a beautiful, healthy baby at the end of nine months. But three miscarriages after his birth taught me just how big an act of hope pregnancy really is.
Not Alone
Louisa Crab Apple in our backyard
Joe and I had siblings, and we wanted the same for Andy. The first two times we got pregnant after his birth, we miscarried before twelve weeks due to abnormal chromosomes. I had a D&C procedure after each, which I was thankful for, because it saved me from having to wait for my body to expel the fetus and reduced my risk of infection. We hadn’t shared our pregnancy news with family and friends, so we supported each other and had an unspoken understanding that we would try again. We also had Andy who was a busy toddler demanding our time, love and attention to keep us from ruminating on our losses.
Our third miscarriage happened in early February 2008. We were over 20 weeks along and knew we were having a boy. Everything was normal until the heartbeat could not be found at a doctor’s appointment. A trip across the street to the hospital and a more powerful ultrasound machine confirmed that there was no fetal heartbeat. My doctor recommended we deliver the fetus to avoid having to do surgery. I called Joe to tell him what was happening, and he supported me doing what I thought was best. Before I left the doctor’s office, I was given medication to start delivery. I went back to work to let my boss know what happened. Being the infinitely good and kind person that he was, he told me how sorry he was, asked if there was anything he could do and to take as much time off as I needed to recover. I went home and started calling family to let them know. I was grateful to my in-laws who took care of Andy while we were at the hospital, and my sister who came over to feed and let Coco out.
The next morning we got up early and went to the hospital. In addition to my tooth brush, I brought a picture of me and my mom, and the novel, Away by Amy Bloom, which was the exact book I needed to be reading at the time. It was Fat Tuesday, and the nurse caring for me the first part of the day wore green beads and planned to celebrate with friends that night. The nurse who took care of me in the evening moved me to a room down the hall, so I wouldn’t have to listen to the woman next door who was in labor. Joe wasn’t there when I moved, having gone to get some dinner. I still remember the look on his face when he walked into the room and said, “I went to the other room and you weren’t there!” The nurse who took care of me overnight shared her difficult journey to having her kids. All three were incredibly kind and only made me love nurses more. When we finally delivered early in the morning, a stricture was discovered in the umbilical cord.
I will forever be grateful to my Ob-Gyn who with kindness and empathy gave me hope for having more kids at a time when I didn’t have much at all. At my first appointment after the delivery, the first 20 minutes were spent with me crying while I shared how I was doing, and he listened. After I was done, he explained steps we could take to increase the likelihood of a healthy, full-term pregnancy. He encouraged me to take time to heal and talk it over with Joe.
In the weeks that followed, people brought us food and sent cards. Andy continued to keep us busy. I spent time online reading stories of miscarriages and stillbirths. I cried as I read and took comfort knowing I wasn’t alone in feeling broken. Some of the women who shared their stories wrote about their decision to have more children after their loss while others closed the door on becoming pregnant again. I realized that was the choice Joe and I had in front of us. My mother-in-law gave us a gift certificate to purchase a tree for our yard as a way to honor our loss. We purchased a Louisa Crab Apple and a Pagoda Dogwood and planted them in our backyard that spring. About that time, we agreed to try again.
White-knuckle Pregnancy
Sam’s pregnancy was my white-knuckle pregnancy. It was a struggle to believe it would end with a beautiful, healthy baby. At least once a day, I was convinced he wasn’t alive, because he wasn’t moving. It turned out he liked to sleep. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes again, but this time I needed to take insulin, which I believe was my body’s reaction to the stress. At a doctor’s appointment two months before our due date, it took the doctor probably a few seconds to locate the heartbeat, and in those few seconds, I panicked. We spent the remainder of the appointment discussing ways to better manage my stress.
I got through Sam’s pregnancy thanks to the love and support of Joe, family and friends. I was shown kindness and care when I needed it most. The x-ray technician who assisted with the amniocentesis I had while pregnant with Sam, had also been the one to confirm there was no fetal heartbeat several months earlier. I recognized her before she recognized me and began to cry. When I explained to her why I was so emotional, she gently squeezed my arm and said, “I am so glad you are here.” A few days later in the mail, I received images from the ultrasound that Jody, as I learned was her name, thought I might want. While I was in labor with Sam, two of the nurses who cared for me a year earlier stopped in to see how I was doing and say how happy they were for us. The day we brought Sam home from the hospital, there was a card in the mail from the birth center to commemorate the late miscarriage we’d had the previous year.
I took a break from thinking about getting pregnant or taking steps to permanently prevent it after Sam was born. I remember Joe saying we were good with two, because we had man-to-man coverage. About the time I was ready to take steps to prevent a future pregnancy, I discovered we were pregnant with Ellie. While her pregnancy wasn’t as easy as Andy’s, it wasn’t as difficult as Sam’s. She was born on March 17, and I was turning 42 years old in June. We were done having kids, but just to make sure, Joe had a vasectomy a few days after we brought her home from the hospital.
More Fraught
Pregnancy and miscarriages have gotten more fraught for far too many women in a post-Roe America. In states with restrictive abortion bans, women are being denied the D&C procedure I had after our first two miscarriages, and the medication I was given for the delivery of our third, because they are also used for abortions. Given how our healthcare system has changed in the 14 years since our last miscarriage, I can’t imagine that there are many doctors or midwives who could spend an hour offering empathy and hope to a grieving patient. In the years since my miscarriages, I have been able to pay forward the hope I received to a handful of women who experienced miscarriages in an effort to give them comfort, let them know they were not alone and that things would get better. Talking to them helped me make meaning of my own experiences and gave me peace with what happened.
My journey to having Andy, Sam and Ellie taught me a lot about hope. I give thanks every day that I am their mom. When they were little, they loved it when I told them how long I waited for them and that they were worth the wait. Now that they are 18, 15 and 13, I still tell them that, but I am not sure that they love it quite as much, but that doesn’t change that they were absolutely worth the wait.
