On July 22nd, I took a pregnancy test.
It was 12 weeks to the day after I’d given birth to Clare and still no period, so I wanted to be sure. To rule out pregnancy, right?
It was negative, as I expected, so I threw it in the trash. A few hours later, I peeked at it and saw a second line. Well, huh.
I walked down to the kitchen, looked out the back window and saw a rainbow.
“That’s God promising us no more bad stuff will happen in the future!” Gabe piped up.
Is it a sign? I wondered.
I calculated that this baby would be due April 2nd – the same month of the fateful anatomy scan, two weeks of hell in limbo, then finally Clare dying and giving birth to her. A month marred by terrible memories would be redeemed, I hoped.
– – – – – – – – –
I started progesterone and baby aspirin and met with two maternal fetal medicine specialists and a reproductive endocrinologist (after jumping through the HMO hoops of referrals) to see if I should be taking injectable blood thinners – often the recommendation after a mid-trimester loss like I’d had with Clare.
Nope, they all told me. The aspirin is enough. You don’t have a diagnosed clotting disorder. You’ve never had a clotting episode. That loss was likely a fluke due to how the placenta implanted at the very beginning – it won’t happen again.
“The most likely outcome here is a healthy baby,” one MFM told me. I’d repeat that to myself during my moments of greatest anxiety.
And I lived in a state of intense anxiety for 4 months.
I was afraid to ride in the car – what if we got into an accident and the baby died?
I was afraid to carry Theo down the stairs – what if I slipped and fell and the baby died?
I didn’t drink coffee. I didn’t run. I dutifully choked down my supplements and even avoided gluten, in an illogical attempt to help the baby not die.
It felt like every minute of every day was geared towards keeping the baby alive. My “rainbow” baby.
– – – – – – – – –
I was less nauseous than with Clare, but still quite sick. And oh so tired. The weeks ticked by, ultrasounds continued to go well. Two first trimesters in one year, down.
I didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant aside from a friend or two and my parents. I wore big baggy clothes to hide my growing bump when I was around people I knew. I didn’t want to talk about the baby with any sense of certainty. I didn’t want anyone to ask.
When the prenatal blood work came back with no problems, I didn’t want to find out the sex – I didn’t want to get too attached when I knew first-hand that there was no guarantees.
I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to answer questions. I didn’t want them to think I was trying to “get over” losing Clare. I didn’t want to acknowledge the pregnancy in any way.
I didn’t even want to do prenatal yoga, because the instructor always talked so glowingly about “the precious life” inside of me and I just…I knew it could end at any time.
It was a dark time. It was hard. Pregnancy isn’t supposed to be like that.
I felt like someone had thrown me in a shark tank against my will. It was a terrifying experience, being pregnant so soon after such a loss.
– – – – – – – – –
I was cooking and cleaning in the kitchen one night and felt the baby kick.
I sat down on a chair and cried.
Cried of out gratefulness and sorrow – because I never felt Clare move. 21 weeks with her inside me and no movement. Because she was so weak and struggling to just stay alive.
But this baby? This baby was strong. It could kick! I was so grateful. But it was bittersweet – I wished I could have felt Clare kick me.
– – – – – – – – –
I continued to listen to the baby’s heartbeat every few days. That beautiful sound comforted me.
I just had a deep sense that it would be okay.
Despite my debilitating anxiety, I knew this one would survive. It had to, right? You don’t go through this twice. I already have one baby’s ashes on a shelf in my closet, I certainly won’t have another baby to put on that shelf. It would be too cruel. That doesn’t happen. That couldn’t happen.
– – – – – – – – –
My anatomy scan was on Election Day.
“Let’s hope they both go well!” I would joke. “And if the election doesn’t go well, I hope at least my baby is okay.”
We were on edge in the waiting room. We got a babysitter this time – I wasn’t making the same mistake of naively bringing my kids to another anatomy scan that went horribly wrong.
But the scan did go well. The doctor seemed a little concerned about how the umbilical cord was attached to the baby – it was hard for her to see since the baby was pressed close to the placenta – but waved it away, “Just had to prove something to myself” after spending a few silent minutes pressing hard with the transducer.
I didn’t feel the rush of elated relief I expected to after the anatomy scan. The baby was growing well! Was moving! Why couldn’t I just enjoy it?
– – – – – – – – –
I was still overwhelmingly anxious.
The baby seemed to be moving less instead of more as the days ticked by after the anatomy scan.
I usually just felt the baby move at night when we were watching TV – since I was still, it was easier to feel.
But for 2 days, nothing. No movement. There was still a heartbeat, but the movement concerned me.
“You’re only 20 weeks!” they waved me away, “It’s fiiiiine. So early.”
On November 15th, I found the heartbeat before bed. I still couldn’t sleep. Like much of pregnancy, I was too anxious and on edge to rest well.
On November 16th, I couldn’t find the heartbeat. I figured maybe the baby was just “hiding.” I went on with my day, staying busy with a breakfast and a playdate with friends.
Mike called the midwife to tell her about how anxious I was – he was concerned about me and frustrated with their lack of help with my trauma. I was experiencing PTSD while pregnant, I now know.
She told me I could come in – and I decided to have Gabe skip his art class to come with me in case it went poorly and I wouldn’t be able to pick him up in time.
The midwife, the one who delivered Clare, burst into the room with a doppler and a cheerful, “Let’s hear that baby!”
I pulled up my shirt and lay back on the table, Theo tucked under my arm next to me, Gabe sitting in the chair beside the table.
“Look at that beautiful belly!” she chirped as she squeezed gel onto my stomach.
Her smile gradually transformed into knit eyebrows and a look of consternation. “Hmm, I keep thinking it’s the baby’s heartbeat, but I’m getting yours. It’s so high!”
“Well, yeah,” I said, “I’m terrified.”
After a few more minutes, she sent me down for an ultrasound. “If there’s no heartbeat, she’ll send you back up here.” The midwife told me. Then she paused, “And, of course, if everything’s fine, I don’t need to see you again.”
I could tell from her voice she didn’t think everything was fine.
I was bewildered. Numb. Sure, I had thought this entire pregnancy that it wouldn’t end well, but that was just my anxiety. The PTSD. It couldn’t actually happen again.
I had a sliver of hope, somehow.
– – – – – – – – –
The ultrasound tech worked in silence. She said nothing.
I knew.
She left the room, still silent.
She came back said, “Sara will see you upstairs now.”
I knew.
I texted Mike, “The baby is gone.”
As we waited for the elevator, Gabe looked up at me and asked, “Why do our babies keep dying?”
– – – – – – – – –
Mike arrived at the midwives office at the same time the midwife came into the room.
“There’s no heartbeat,” she said in disbelief, shaking her head. “I mean, I just can’t believe it.”
Numbness again.
We discussed our options and what to do going forward.
As we left, I asked Mike to find out the sex of the baby.
He caught up to me, “It’s a boy,” he told me.
– – – – – – – – –
And, so, on November 20th, I went to the same room in the same hospital with the same nurse as I did seven months before and was induced to give birth to my second baby that had died in one year.
There are a lot of complicated emotions right now – it’s taken almost three months to be able to share what happened. I just wasn’t ready to hear other people’s shock and dismay when I was reeling myself.
The only proof I have of this baby existing are photos, my pregnancy test, and his ashes.
It did happen again.
And because I know there will be questions, no, the doctors have no idea. This fetal demise was very different than Clare’s – he was measuring well and had enough fluid. He was much chubbier when he was born, even though he was a week younger than she was.
I am in the process of attempting to find answers, if there are answers to be had, but mostly feeling pretty defeated and ready to move on from this child-having business altogether and just focus on appreciating the two little guys I have at home. At this point, a positive pregnancy test feels 100% guarantee of 5 months of vomiting and nausea, debilitating anxiety, and no baby. Not to mention, the fears that this is revealing some underlying health problems of my own that haven’t been discovered yet.
Thanks for reading and caring. ❤
Oh, and please don’t say, “I hoped you were pregnant since you weren’t blogging!” That hurts. ❤ Thanks, friends.
❤️
Oh my goodness. Words fail me. I could not possibly be more sorry. This is absolutely awful. I’m so so sorry.
Oh Ashley. Oh honey, I am so sorry.
Oh, Ashley. I’m just so, so sorry.
Sending you and your family my love and prayers.
I got physically sick reading this. I am so, so sorry.
I know that I don’t “know” you, and I fear this will sound creepy, but I had this thought pop into my head after reading your post about Clare, and I can’t ignore it twice. I am an avid scrapbooker. I know, totally lame. I’d be honored to make a small keepsake memory book for you. You needn’t share specific photos with me, since I’m sure some are ones you wouldn’t want to share with a total stranger. Directions like “leave space for three 4×6’s” would work just fine, and you could paste them into holes I’d leave. It’s also totally okay to think I’m weird and ignore me :)
I just…I’m so sorry.
There are no articulate words to say to you that would even come close to helping you with this heartbreak, just know that you all are in my thoughts and prayers. Sending love to you and yours.
No words other than I’m sorry.
No words can be enough. I’m wishing you a speedy return to hope, peace and health. Thank you for sharing your story and continuing to let us peep in on your life, even when it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. You guys are in my thoughts and prayers, and I’m thinking of you and grateful that you let us in on this. Hopefully we can share the hurt a little
Oh my god Ashley, I don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. I am in disbelief that your family keeps getting hit by this horrible tragedy. May you, Mike, Gabe and Theo continue to hold each other tight as you deal with this loss. I am so sorry. All the love to you.
You know you continue to be in my heart and prayers. I think about you and your babies so often. Honestly I hold this pregnancy differently because of the way our stories have crossed, and I’m grateful for that. Which may sound strange but I know you understand what I am trying to say. There are absolutely no guarantees in this life; people’s cliches are so empty; and when you have suffered so much, the fact that you keep going in whatever way you can go is an enormous testament to human resilience. I don’t understand any of it, at all, but I am honored to hold your babies’ stories and memories with you. They were here and their lives mattered and they will not be forgotten.
I don’t know you, but I’ve read your blog for years and feel like I “know” you and your family. My heart breaks for you – so much love to you and your family.
Oh, Ashley! I am so sorry this happened to you and your family. Sending love.
I am so, so sorry for you and your family, Ashley. You are such an amazing woman and mama. Nobody should have to go through such loss. Praying for you and sending so much love your way…
Oh my gosh, Ashley. I am so, so heartbroken for you and your family. This is truly devastating. I am sending you hugs, love and light… <3
I’m sure this was so hard to share but thank you for sharing with us. I follow you on twitter and I’ve been following along – love and peace to your family. You’ll be in my thoughts ❤.
I am so very sorry.
Just a stranger saying I’m so sorry for your losses. All your babies are so beautiful.
I am so sorry. I have no words to help, but you and your family are in our prayers.
I am so, so sorry, Ashley.
I’m so sorry, Ashley. I think often about you and your family, and I’m so sorry that you’re having to handle so much pain.
I am so very sorry, and so angry that this has happened to you again. So very much love to you and your family.
I am so very sorry, Ashley. You will be in my heart.
So much sadness for your family to bear. Thanks for sharing your story.
Oh Ashley. Oh I’m so, so sorry. I wish there was something we could do take away your hurt, but we are all holding you and your family up in our hearts. Oh honey. I’m so sorry.
I am so very sorry. Thinking of you and your family, and sending love and light.
I’m so so sorry for you and your family. Hugs.
I am so sorry, Ashley. Even though we don’t know each other, you continue to be in my prayers. <3
Ashley. I am so sad and mad and sorry and cannot believe how awful this is. I’m so, so sorry.
The world can be so, so cruel. I’m so very sorry. I hope you find some peace.
❤️Oh friend, I have no words. Just lots of love and prayers for you, Mike, and the boys.
I am so sorry.
Love you, Ashley. I am so sorry.
I am so sorry for your loss, and will be thinking of you often. Love to you and yours, Ashley.
I’m so sorry for your loss. Praying for your healing:)
Oh, this post just broke my heart. I’m so sorry to hear about what you’re going through. Sending hugs and love!
I am in awe of your vulnerability and strength, and I stand with you. <3
I’m so deeply sorry for your loss, Ashley. Sending you all the love in the world.
I am so sorry, from start to finish, about all of it. It’s not fair, it’s horrible and I just have no idea why it’s happened to you. Just know that you have this wealth of people loving you from afar and sending all of our good thoughts your way. I’m heartbroken for you and I deeply hope that sharing your story has helped you to grieve and heal.
Oh, my friend. I am just so, so sorry to hear this. I can’t do anything but send you love & strength, & I’m doing a lot of that.
I am so so very sorry for your losses.
I am very sorry to hear of all the suffering you are going through. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.
I’m so sorry. This is bringing up memories of my own painful losses, and how devastating it was for me and for my family. The only thing I can tell you is this:
You have every right to be anxious, to be angry, to be sad, to be numb, to just let yourself feel everything. What happened is not your fault.
Your babies will always be a part of you. One day the pain will not be so acute, but you will literally always have them with you. One thing that brought me comfort, oddly enough, was reading research that found DNA from a mother’s children in her brain years after she was pregnant, meaning cells transferred from the child to the mother in pregnancy and remain in her brain the rest of her life. Your kids, ALL of your kids, are literally always with you. As long as you are alive, a part of them is still alive too.
I am so sorry. I’ve had three early miscarriages in a year and feel completely defeated. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I am just so very sorry.
Prayers, prayers, prayers and so much love to you and your family.
I cried for you with Clare and I cry for you with this loss too. I’m so very sorry for you, Mike, Gabe & Theo. I wish you good health and that you may somehow someway find peace.
I’m so very sorry Ashley. I’m so sorry. I hold you and all of your family in my heart.
Oh Ashley. Oh I am so, so sorry. Prayers for your family.
Hours after reading this again and all I can think to share is love. So much love to you and your boys. You are all so very much in my heart and in my thoughts. xoxoxo
I am so angry and sad for you. I wish it was different. I am so sorry.
Sending all the love.
So much love to you, Ashley. My heart breaks for you, it truly does. My best friend from college went through a very similar experience – I don’t know if you would ever find comfort from speaking to someone else who lost children late in pregnancy, but if you ever do, I know she would love to talk to you. Just reach out if you need that. Thinking of you.
I’m so sorry. Sending lots of love for you and your family.
There are no words. I am sending you love. <3
I’ve come back twice today to try to find the words/phrase that are more expressive than sympathy, empathy and compassion to express how sorry I am for you and your family, and having to go through awfulness again. Thinking of you and yours, and thank you for being so open and sharing this heartbreak with us. It takes a brave woman. Sending lots of love & light.
Lots and lots of love for you and your family. Loss makes no sense, but this much loss even moreso. Sometimes hope really is meant to be a four letter word.
Words fail at a moment like this, just know I’m sending you love. ❤️
I’m so sorry.
Wishing you love and healing and hope. Hope that you will be ok, even if you aren’t quite sure what that looks like quite yet.
Thank you for being brave and vulnerable and sharing your story with those of us who have come to enjoy reading your blog. May the love you’ve shared here be returned to you tenfold.
I’m so sorry. I have no words, but I am thinking of you. ❤️
I am so sorry for your family’s loss, and am sending you much love. Be well and please take care of yourself. Thank you for sharing this story.
Sending love and strength to your family. I am so so sorry for your losses.
I’m so sorry. I know we’re a million miles apart, but I’m sending you and your babies so much love. <3
I have no words, absolutely none. I can not imagine what you are going through or what your family are going through. Please know that I send love and prayers from my family to yours and I hope that you get some answers to give you some peace.
Take care xxxx
Ugh, Ashley, I’m so sorry. So so sorry. I can’t believe this keeps happening to you. It’s so awful.
So many people are thinking of you, praying for you, and loving you. Even those of us who have never met you. We don’t just comment and move on; you are special and we can’t forget about you.
Thank you for sharing this piece of your life. <3
I am so sorry you have had to go through this twice, back to back. It makes no sense and is so, so unfair. Thinking of you and your family and hoping you get the answers you need soon.
Sending many prayers your way. I’m so sorry to hear and can’t imagine the loss. I’m a long-time lurker and I know we haven’t talked in ages, but I do think of you. Much love.
Ashley, I’ve read this post twice now, and Ive got nothing but tears. I’m so so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine how much you must be hurting right now. You deserve all the warmth and light in the world. Thank you for letting us in on this horrific experience, you’ll be in my prayers tonight. <3
Sending you and your family much love <3.
Oh Ashley. My heart to you. I cannot imagine the magnitude of feelings you must have. You are so strong and so loved. I’m so sorry for your losses and all you have and are going through. All of my love to you. ❤ You are in my prayers.
Ashley, I am so sorry for your (and your family’s) loss. I hope you get answers about your health. Thank you for sharing your struggle and grief; this shouldn’t be something anyone feels pressure to stay quiet about.
I am so very sorry, Ashley.
I can’t even begin to imagine what you are feeling and grieving. Know that you’ve got an entire world holding you and your beautiful family. Prayers for peace, healing, and love.
Love you Ash. So proud of you for summoning the strength to write this. Continually thinking of you, and hoping for a peace and healing far beyond sensibility. ❤ As I know you know, but it still feels appropriate to say, I am so incredibly sorry.
Ashley, I am so, so sorry. You have been in my prayers but even more so will be again now! What a dark valley to walk through! I can’t imagine. Many prayers for you.
Ashley, I am so so sorry for your losses. It breaks my heart thinking of the pain that you and your family have experienced. No one should have to go through that. Thinking of and praying for you and your family.
I read this a few weeks ago on my phone, circling back to leave a comment….even though I am at a loss for words.
xox
I’m so sorry. Holding you and your family in the light.
I am so so sorry Ashley. So sorry.
It’s hard to console someone when they experience this kind of loss. Only time can attenuate certain wounds.
However, I can tell that you like children very much. You seem a good parent and you’ve raised a beautiful family.
When things don’t go as expected, try to be kind to yourself and remember that your family needs you to be happy.
Our bodies are complex systems and even modern medicine doesn’t have answers to all questions unfortunately.
I know you don’t have time to reply to all messages, but I would really like to know, if possible, what would be your ideal family size and perhaps family structure (boys/girls?…) if it’s the case.
I wish you courage and good health.
Sending you love and I hope you get some answers about this. So sorry you had to go through this twice and within such a short period of time too. :(
I am so sorry. Your family (*all* of your family) is in my prayers, but I am praying especially for your peace and healing.
Sending love to you.
I’m so very sorry. I recently lost my 10-day old son to multiple anomalies – he was my rainbow baby after 4 miscarriages and so loved and wanted. And his sister said to me the same thing your son said, “Why do our babies always die?” It’s just absolutely heartbreaking and so incredibly devastating. I just wanted you to know, you’re not alone.
I just lost my rainbow baby, how absolutely sucky it all is. I have no idea how much all this much hurt you, still. Bless you.
Thank you for sharing. I’ve the same story as yours and I’ve been desperately trying to relate to someone online. I took comfort in your story, terribly sad that it is. I hope you have peace in your heart, now some years have passed. Did you have another? We have 2 boys and just list a boy in June at 24 weeks and now another boy last week at 20 weeks. I thought lightening didn’t strike twice. I felt sure this one would be fine. It’s bloody devastating in so many ways. My 5year old is really struggling with it. Thanks again for sharing your story. xx