Six weeks ago I was at the hospital.
I was dreading going to the labor and delivery floor to give birth to my dead baby. I was so scared of walking in and seeing some hugely pregnant woman getting admitted and getting ready to meet her baby while I was there with my undersized bump and fighting back tears.
When I went to the hospital to be induced with Theo, I was a little wistful I wasn’t being admitted while in active labor – it felt somehow wrong to be comfortable and functional while getting ready to have my baby. Like I wasn’t experiencing labor in its fullest or something? I don’t know.
Regardless, I was reminded of this feeling when I was being admitted to labor and delivery this time and wanted to kick Ashley of 2014 for being even the slightest bit sad about being induced to have my living, healthy baby.
Such privilege. I would have taken an induction, a c-section, NICU time, anything to get to have my Clare still with me.
But of course, how was I to know then that my two miscarriages were not going to be the worst thing I’d ever experienced? No, much much harder time lie ahead for me.
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Six weeks is the usual postpartum period after a full-term pregnancy. It’s often the amount of maternity leave women take. Six weeks. Seems somewhat consequential a period of time.
I am getting back to functioning. Doing a Couch to 5K program and easing back into work and cooking dinner and doing things that felt SO overwhelming a few weeks ago.
But I’m still gobsmacked by sadness now and then.
I was running while listening to a podcast and they were talking about what Hillary Clinton will mean for our daughters and I started crying as I ran. The people driving past probably thought I REALLY hated running.
That sentiment is EVERYWHERE, though. Everyone is talking about raising daughters and Hillary Clinton and isn’t it amazing?
All I can think is that it WOULD be amazing if I had been pregnant with my first daughter during all of this. To be able to share that with her some day. And I can’t help but think that I’m excluded from it all by not having a daughter. Except I did and she died and she’ll never listen to me tell her about any of this. I will never see what kind of woman she becomes.
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The other losses felt so significant and devastating when I experienced them in 2013. But they sort of felt like the *idea* of a baby, not a real baby that had a chance of living outside the womb. More of an abstract than a solid reality.
Maybe part of that is that I was pregnant with Theo before the first miscarriage due date came about, so I felt like I wouldn’t have had Theo if that pregnancy hadn’t been lost? So their existences felt inexplicably bound up in Theo. This is weird to say…er, type aloud. I know this.
Clare felt real. Clare WAS real. She feels more like a sibling to my other kids than my miscarriages ever did. I saw her on ultrasounds, listened to her heartbeat every single day for 3 months, and I was making space for her in our life.
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I should be entering my third trimester now. I should be complaining about discomfort and not being able to sleep well and heartburn and bruised ribs from my active little baby. My biggest worries should be how Theo is going to adapt to a new baby, if I’ll need to be induced again, and if we need a bigger car.
Instead, my biggest worries are why my body betrayed me so deeply. We got all the results back and Clare was an utterly normal, healthy little baby. But my body killed her.
It’s not my fault, I know this. I didn’t do anything to cause this. But still something in body prevented her from staying alive. And no one can tell me what it was.
That has been my obsession as of late – finding answers. My OB in Ohio told me it was bad luck to have two miscarriages in a row. My midwife and MFM here told me my miscarriages were unlikely to be related to this stillbirth. That it was just more ‘bad luck’ and we will never know what caused the placental insufficiency.
I want to believe that it’s just bad luck, because then I could take another gamble and hope for good luck, but I can’t. So my quest now is to find a doctor who takes my case seriously and wants to find out what the link is and if we can fix whatever is wrong with me.
I’ve been looking to studies, poring over online forums, emailing women who’ve experienced similar losses, emailing doctors across the country, and exploring fringe science and medicine ideas with a mixture of skepticism and hope.
It’s exhausting and confusing. I wish it were simpler.
Most of all, I wish I could just talk to 60-year-old Ashley and ask her, “What happens? Will I get over this experience? Will it always make me sad to hear about daughters when mine died inside me? Will I have another baby? Should I move on? TELL ME ALL THE ANSWERS.”
And I’ll end there. That’s enough stream of consciousness for one Friday afternoon. Thank you for all the love, support, emails, packages, cards, and prayers. I appreciate you all more than I can express. xo
I can’t possibly begin to understand your loss, but I just wanted to say that my thoughts are with you and that I really hope you find the answers you’re looking for and eventually peace of mind.
I have no answers but so much love. Sending it all to you, my friend.
I can’t begin to comprehend what you’re going through, but I hope you find the answers you seek. My thoughts are with you daily, Ashley.
Thinking of you and Clare.
I’m so sorry, Ashley. I can’t even begin to know what it’s like for you right now. I hope somehow you get answers. You know, the mutation I have can cause miscarriages, some of the variations of it anyways. I think to myself, maybe I have a milder variation but I can’t be sure. I waiver between “stupid bodies” and “look what my body DID create.” I’m sure that’s 100 fold for you. Sending you all lots of love; it’s not fair for good moms like you to have to go through any of this.
I think it’s so understandable to want answers. They allow us to move on, make new plans, take new risks. Not having these answers somehow paralyzes (or that’s what I imagine the feeling to be).
Sending love and hugs to your and your family, Ashley, and hoping for peace of heart.
Still thinking of you so often and praying!!
I just want to send you all the hugs, like basically just a hug waiting for you every single time you need it. I wish so much that you were just entering the third trimester and complaining about those discomforts and having those worries. I think you are right to keep searching for answers and I hope you find some, quickly. Thinking of you!!!
Don’t listen to mainstream medicine and all the doctors who tell you it’s normal when you know in your heart something is not.
I did this for 15 years and what do you know… the gut instinct I had was right all along. So many doctors. So many good doctors. And they had been wrong.
The answers are there. You just have to find the people who think outside the boxes of med school long ago.
Check out Dr Sarah Gottfried, The Hormone Cure and also, Flo Living.
I’m so sorry this has happened and that you must feel it so deeply. :( I hope you find answers and peace.
Sending you love and good thoughts. You are so honest in your writing, and your pain is so evident, as is your strength, and continued devotion and love towards your boys. I hope you and Mike one day find the peace and answers you seek. Best wishes for a good day today.
I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Sending love.
Ashley, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve continued to think of you and am still praying for you and your family.
Sending you so much love Ashley, so so much. xoxo
You are amazing Ashley. I hope you find the answers you are looking for.
I don’t have any words that could be at all comforting, but know that I am hurting and grieving with you.
xox
I pray for you. May you have more moments of happiness than sadness knowing you now have a baby girl angel looking after you every step you take. :)
Serendipitously came across this after reading your post. Thought you might find some peace in it. http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/10243026.html
I have not looked at your blog in a long while (just lost track of it). Found it today, only to learn of all the sorrow and loss you have experienced. My heart goes out to you. I am so sorry you do not have your sweet, loved, dear daughter here with you to raise and hold and love face-to-face.
I have a daughter in Heaven as well. It is such a hard, strange, disorienting thing.
Please don’t stop sharing. We need more voices like yours. Voices in the darkness, letting others know they are not alone. Enough voices that the world will learn how to relate and support and talk to those who have lost a child.
Hugs and hope for healing and comfort.
Oh, how my heart aches for you. This is all so damn unfair, no one should have to experience what you have. I really hope you can find a doctor to help you figure out what is going on with your body. I hope you are pregnant again, I hope you have an uneventful pregnancy and I hope you have another little girl.