On Sunday, May 5, 2019, our developing fetus passed from my body at 8 weeks + 5 days gestation. Just short of 9 weeks. Physically, it was a lump of human cells, shaped to appear human. Like a human larva. I don’t know whether or not it is a boy or a girl, but as I held it in my hand, I felt a sense of confirmation wash over me that this baby is our son. I have no proof other than my feelings, but it feels right. He has a name we hold close to our hearts.
I was so happy to be pregnant again. I honestly thought for a long time after Lillie that I might be done having children. A healthy mental state was so difficult to recover after her birth. I was discouraged and unsure if I could handle having more children. By the time I felt peaceful about going forward, I felt like I had come to terms with all those hard feelings. The depth of my sadness and discouragement was matched by the heights of my happiness upon seeing those two pink lines on the pregnancy test. I was overjoyed. I wanted to shout from the rooftops that I was going to have another gorgeous baby. I looked forward to my tummy growing, feeling the kicks, and just being a miserable cow. Pregnancy isn’t easy, but I eagerly anticipated paying the price necessary to hold that baby in my arms and introduce him to our family.
The kids were also thrilled. They asked questions about the baby in my tummy quite a bit. During family prayer once, Milton prayed for all of his immediate family members, including “the other baby”.
I was supposed to have a newborn during Christmas this year.
I’ve never had a complicated pregnancy. There have been plenty of discomforts and a few tense moments (like that 2 weeks of bright red bleeding during my first trimester with Milton...stressful), but overall, I’ve been extremely blessed to not struggle with fertility. My heart aches for those who do. I assumed that this would be a routine pregnancy, just like the others. I guess it was routine, until it wasn’t.
I began lightly bleeding on Tuesday, April 30th. It was light enough to be called spotting, which is totally normal in pregnancy (until it isn’t). I wasn’t concerned, but I alerted the guards in my brain to keep an eye on it. On Wednesday, I was still spotting, but it seemed to be heavier. I told myself it was in my head, and that it wasn’t actually getting heavier. That afternoon saw some dull cramping, which is also normal in pregnancy (until it isn’t). It felt like my period was about to start. I was at the soccer fields with all three kids because Emma had team pictures and a game. We had time to kill between them, so the kids were playing on the playground while I sat on the bench nearby, brooding. I felt a sense of calm doom. My mind was totally distracted by the possibility that this bleeding might mean something serious. We made it through that evening, and I went to bed worried. I kept telling myself it was nothing, but I didn’t believe me. But I had also never experienced a pregnancy loss, so I didn’t which side of me to believe. It became obvious to me the next morning that the bleeding and cramping had intensified. It was still light enough to possibly not be a problem, but heavy enough that I wanted my doctor to know what was happening. I texted Darren from work and told him I was going to make an appointment to see the doctor that afternoon.
I made arrangements to leave the girls with my friend Natalia. Milton had been running a fever all day, so I couldn’t leave him. He got to come with me to the doctor. What I wouldn’t have given to be so blissfully unaware. At the same time, I’m so glad I wasn’t caught off guard. I’ve read a lot of miscarriage stories over the last few weeks, and though they all break my heart, putting myself in the shoes of those who eagerly go into an ultrasound to be surprised by no heartbeat, or no baby at all, breaks me into a million pieces. On the other hand, I was pleasantly surprised to see that my baby still had a heartbeat. It was still alive. My heart filled with tentative hope. There may not be a problem after all!
Dr. S was happy to report that there was still a heartbeat, but he immediately admitted his concern over Baby’s heart rate. It was slower than it should be, at about 80 beats per minute. That’s about half of what it should have been. He told me to not lose hope, that the baby could catch up from this. He was honest about the chances for success though. I appreciated his honesty. Before leaving, I asked him at what point we needed to worry about a Rhogam shot. Since I hadn’t had any initial pregnancy blood work-ups, he didn’t even know that I have O-
blood. His eyebrows shot up, and he declared that we should go ahead and get that ball rolling. He sent me to the hospital lab so they could draw some blood and get my injection ready for the next day. Even though he had no idea what he was looking at, I was glad that Milton was able to see the ultrasound. He’s the only other family member who saw the little heart beating in real time.
I returned home. Thursday night is a blur to me. I was busily texting my sisters and mom in our sister chat, keeping them in the loop with all that was happening. They rallied around me from a distance and held me from afar. I attempted to keep my emotions neutral. I didn’t want to completely give up hope, but it was also hard to convince myself that things were going to be okay. All the evidence seemed to indicate a failed pregnancy, and deep down I knew it was.
I texted my boss early Friday morning to let him know I wouldn’t be coming in. My cramps and bleeding had gotten worse over night, and it just didn’t make sense to take that suffering and my inevitable tears to a place of business. The pain had disturbed my sleep during the dark and early hours. I tried to stay busy Friday morning by folding laundry. I hate folding laundry, and I hate keeping busy. But I also hated thinking about whether or not the baby was still alive. The thought of waiting until the next Wednesday for my follow-up ultrasound was actual mental torture. I sat on the couch, surrounded by laundry, while Darren droned on and on about something. The stock market? I honestly don’t remember. I don’t know if he was trying to distract me or just oblivious to my emotional state, but I kept wishing he would shush haha. He left for a bit, and I found myself sobbing on the couch. When he returned, I tried to suck in my bottom lip and pretend that I wasn’t crying. I knew it was unconvincing, but he jumped right back into his monologue about stocks. I love you, but shuuuuut up.
I returned to the doctor after lunch for the Rhogam shot. It’s a painful butt shot that doesn’t feel super great. I dread it with every pregnancy. Usually, an Rh- mother will get the shot around 28 weeks, so I hadn’t had enough time to get psyched. Nevertheless, there I was.
I asked the nurse if I could possibly get another ultrasound. I tried to be cool about it, but my desperation was dripping off of every word. I needed to know if my baby was dead yet.
She spoke with the doctor, and they agreed to an ultrasound, stating that they had some time available. I was happy to see that Baby’s heartbeat was still going, but it was slower than it had been the day before. Dr. S had a hard time finding and counting the heart rate. He said it was roughly in the 70s. He expressed to me that it did not look good. The slow heart rate, bleeding, and cramping were three strikes against the likelihood of a positive outcome. My voice was shaking as I told him over and over again that I understood what he was saying. He and the nurse left the room, and I lost control. I allowed myself a few moments to feel, and then gathered my purse and my emotions, and exited the ultrasound room, ready to beeline for my car. The nurse walked up behind me and touched my arm, saying that she needed to check my vitals since she hadn’t done so beforehand. I went back into the room, trying to remember that it’s okay to look like I’ve been crying. She quickly checked my temperature and my blood pressure. My blood pressure was a wee bit high (a lot bit high…), so she asked me to stay put while she spoke with the doctor. She came back and said that the doctor thought my blood pressure was high because of how stressed I was. Makes sense. Also, I could have told her that. I ran out the door, down the elevator, and across the parking lot as quickly as I could, praying the whole time that I wouldn’t run into anyone. I was fortunate in that regard.
I turned out of the parking lot the opposite direction from home. I didn’t know where to go, but I wanted to cry hard for a bit. Our parking lot felt too intimate. My neighbors and I park way too close together, plus the kids would likely discover me through the front window. I was too busy feeling sad about the littlest among us to be bothered with their presence. Harsh? Perhaps. Either way, I wasn’t going home. I drove south down Main Street, thinking that perhaps I would work my way up the canyon and find a place along the creek to park. But there’s always a chance I could run into other people at the creek. I was approaching the cemetery on my right when I remembered that it isn’t weird to cry at a cemetery, and nobody would bother me there. I parked alongside Baby Jackson’s block and let myself feel. It’s not the first time I’ve cried by his grave, but the reason was new. Once I felt more able to face my family, I drove home. I finished off my afternoon with a hot bath. I texted my friends, Sage (Baby Jackson’s mom) and Stefanie, to let them know what was happening. Within probably an hour, they were both at my house. They had Crumbl cookies delivered, and we had a proper girls’ night. Physically, I was hurting, but emotionally, I was so humbled. I had received such an outpouring of love from my family and friends throughout the day. It felt good to laugh and spend time together and be raw.
Friday is also the day my sister Sarah ordered Domino’s and had tons of food delivered to our house to keep the kids fed over the weekend. They subsisted on pizza and chicken nuggets for days. There was also a delivery of french fries and Dr. Pepper because David and Julie (my younger siblings) knew I needed some fries and soda to simultaneously comfort my soul and ruin my physical health. Worth it. I felt the love strong from across the state and country.
Saturday morning I discovered that Friday’s cramps were super mild compared to Saturday’s cramps. I would make a similar discovery on Sunday morning about the intensity of Saturday’s cramps, but let’s not get ahead of the story. I began texting people in hopes that someone would want to take my feverish children and let me suffer in peace. Eventually, my friend Gwen came over to spend time with the littles. Emma had gone to work with Darren, so only Milton and Lillie were home. I sat on my bed, snacking on pasta (courtesy of the Domino’s delivery) and binging on Bones. I periodically sat on the toilet and eventually found myself in a warm bath. The rest of the day followed that same general pattern. Gwen left in the afternoon to return to her own sick teenager. I spent some time with the kids and with Darren. Took some Benadryl to help me sleep.
Through all of this, I’m wearing Depends lady diapers. They are by far the best choice for excessive and heavy bleeding, but they do nothing to help one’s dignity.
Saturday night I spoke with my mom on the phone for a long time. She shared more about her own miscarriages, and I feel so much closer to her because of it.
We decided to keep everyone but Emma home from church on Sunday. Milton and Lillie had been running fevers, and I didn’t want to be in charge of them. Darren dropped Emma off at our friend’s home (Adam and Amanda) so that she could go to church with them. He entertained the sick ones downstairs while I continued my solitary confinement. Every now and then I came down to visit for a minute, but not often. I don’t think I watched any TV. The cramps had reached a point where they could be called contractions. They came in waves every minute or so, and I was practicing focused breathing. And moaning. I make weird noises when I’m in labor, but they soothe me through the pain, so I don’t really mind. I’m only self-conscious when I have an audience, so I tried to stay hidden in my room. Darren brought me Lillie around noon. It was time for her nap, and she always lays down with me. I tried to settle her down, but she was too hyper. She eventually left me, and just like Elsa, I let her goooo. Darren spotted her wandering around the house and kept tabs on her after that. I resumed concentrating on my labor pains.
Every time I thought it shouldn’t hurt more, it did. The cramps were sharp and sustained. They pulsed through my body. The pain was awful, but satisfying. It was validating in a strangely poetic way. I was worried about the miscarriage occurring without any ceremony, but there I was, going through the motions. Feeling the feelings. Hurting the hurt. Experience the ceremony of birth, albeit seven months early. There was so much love. I was hurting for my baby, and that felt right. I did it for my other kids, so I wanted to do it for this kid.
I feel like this all paints a sad picture, and while it was sad, I felt indescribable peace. Heavenly Father wrapped me in his love. I have zero doubt that the spirits of my loved one were nearby, helping me through the grief and physical pain.
As soon as I realized that miscarriage was a real possibility a few days earlier, I began obsessively searching online for stories that sounded similar to mine. I searched Google images for pictures of 8 and 9 week fetus who had been miscarried. I was told more than once that I wouldn’t even see the baby when it passed out. I eventually accepted that the baby wouldn’t survive this pregnancy, but I refused to accept that I would be forced to say goodbye to my little love before I even had the opportunity to say hello. I did not want to flush him down the toilet if I could help it. Every time it felt like something “big” left me, I ran to the bathroom to check. I was crazy determined to find my baby.
At about 4:40 PM, on May 5, 2019, the baby was born. I got out of bed between contractions to turn off my box fan. I was standing in front of my bookshelf when a wave of pain hit me. When it was over, I felt it. I ran to the bathroom and fished my baby from inside my trusty old lady diaper. I don’t know when it died, but there I was, holding it in my hands. It was surreal. I had thought I would have to wait a longer time to hold my baby. I certainly didn’t expect to hold it at this early stage of fetal development. I was awash with joy. This is my baby, and I didn’t miss it.
I washed it. I carried it downstairs to show to his daddy. We stared at it for a minute, smiling (mostly me...my triumph at not losing him to the pipes was palpable). As I held it and we stared at it, I felt that his spirit was male. He is our son. That evening, I took pictures. I wanted to have them to stare at for the rest of my life, and possibly to show the kids someday.
The body was in rough shape. Miscarriage is pretty traumatic to their bodies. The doctor confirmed at the next appointment that it isn’t unusual for it to look deformed, for lack of a better word. For all I know, it was developing incorrectly and inherently deformed. I recognized its face and spine. I recognized the little buds that made up its feet. It had human features.
Emotionally, I was good-to-go for the rest of the day. I felt genuine joy that I had my baby in my possession.
One week later, on Mother’s Day, I wrapped the refrigerated remains of my little one in a strip of cheesecloth for burial. I had originally decided not to show it to the kids, but Emma asked me directly if she could see the baby. I explained that it looked even less like a baby than it had a week before, but handed it over. She held the jar close and looked inside. She was so careful. Milton and Lillie were only interested because of Emma’s interest and each took turns holding the jar. It was in a small ziploc baggie inside the mason jar. I removed it from the bag, and after it was wrapped up in it’s mummy cloth, I took a picture of each of the kids holding it. We drove up the canyon, to a spot that seemed relatively secluded and easy to find. Darren dug a hole, Milton placed the baby in the hole, and then Emma filled it with the shovel. We covered the spot with a few rocks and took more pictures. Milton said a prayer. Then we walked down to the creek and put our toes in the water for a few minutes. The water was moving really fast and was extremely cold, so we didn’t stick around for too long.
