My 2nd birth story....

I don't know where to start, but I don't want to forget my second birth story. Even though it didn't end as happily as anyone wished it had, it still is a birth story.

I was nine weeks and 2 days pregnant with our second child, when I started bleeding just ever so slightly. Enough to notice when using the bathroom, but not enough to have felt serious cramping. But soon after noticing the bleeding, the cramping started. I called my on-call OB GYN and they gave me the best medical advice they could; "It is normal to have spotting between weeks 7 to 12" and "Make sure to stay off your feet for as much as possible" then I was told "If the bleeding increases come in to the Assessment Center and they will run tests".

Honestly none of that made me feel any better, I think I knew in my heart what was happening. I just didn't want to accept it. 

I try to live by the motto of "hope for the best, plan for the worst," but in this circumstance, I didn't know how to plan for the worst. No one tells you what happens when the worst does happen in this situation. So, I called my mother who had dealt with both sides of this, she had been through a miscarriage and she had also bled during a healthy pregnancy that ended in the healthy birth of my youngest sister. If anyone would know what to do it would be my mother. That's what moms are for, their vast life knowledge and their compassion.

My mother asked for my symptoms and then asked if I wanted to just talk to her and have her listen, or if I wanted to know the differences between her two experiences? I asked her to tell me the difference between her healthy birth and her miscarriage, because my doctor's office left me with so many questions.

Her experience was that when she started bleeding with my sister, she was further along and there was no cramping. With her miscarriage, there was both. She told me to prepare myself for the worst, that if I did lose this baby it would be ok. I would be ok. She asked if I needed her to fly down from Oregon to be with me. 

Because I thought I knew best and that this couldn't possibly be a miscarriage, I politely declined. I have a husband who loves me and will take good care of me, but he wouldn't need to because this wasn't happening. I would just take this weekend to rest and let my husband chase our two-year-old son around the house while I sit back and let my body heal. 

Then the cramping came on. It came on fast and hard, and then I started to realize that my body was changing. Again, I rejected the thought as soon as it entered my head, surely Google knew best, that women could bleed and cramp while being pregnant and still have a healthy baby in the end? I had already had one full pregnancy and relatively healthy birth; a miscarriage couldn't happen to me. I had taken care of my body and made sure to follow my doctor's orders in regard to how best help this little being into becoming a little person. But that didn't matter.

By the next morning my bleeding had increased. I yelled to my husband from the bathroom, I told him that we needed to prepare our son to stay with friends while we rushed to the "Assessment Center" (aka the pregnancy ER). I texted and called our friends, and they thankfully called us back asking what was wrong. I started sobbing to my dear friend over the phone, "I think I'm losing the baby!" 

She quietly told me whatever I needed she and her husband would take care of. Did our son need to be watched? Sure, no problem. All day? No worries, just come. Drop him off. He will be cared for. The entire time we were in the hospital, she kept me updated with my toddler's silly antics with her daughter (thankfully they are best friends).

We quickly put ourselves as much together as we thought we needed. I didn't pack extra clothing and my husband didn't bring any extra luggage other than his wallet and cellphone. Again, we were holding on to that last shred of hope that we had just had our first prenatal appointment and seen the ultrasound. The baby had a heartbeat, so until otherwise told specifically by a qualified doctor, our child was thriving inside me.

We quickly dropped off our son with smiles and thank you's, then headed to the hospital.

Once we figured out where the "Assessment Center" was and walked in, we realized that it was quite literally the ER for pregnant families. I checked in, a nurse came and got me after a fifteen to twenty-minute wait. She started to ask me questions, and I broke down. She calmed me down and told me nothing was definite yet. We continued our questionnaire about my medical history, my home life, the reason for my visit. Then she had me return to the waiting room. And then things got worse.

We were waiting in the waiting room for another thirty or so minutes, all the while my "cramps" became more and more intense. I felt like I needed to use the bathroom to pass gas, but honestly, I was scared too. Scared that I would go into that bathroom and my body would remove the precious parcel that I had dutifully carried for over two months. That I would have to come out of that bathroom with the waste on myself. So I sat in pain, I got up and I walked to try to cut through the pain. Nothing worked. Eventually they had us go back into the exam room.

The nurse asked us some more questions and then told us an intern would be coming in before the actual doctor. We were fine with whatever, we just needed to know what was happening. The intern came in and asked many of the same questions that the nurse asked, all the while my "cramping" which I now know were contractions, continued. Finally, after waiting through the questions and then sitting with just my husband in the exam room, the REAL doctor comes in. He tells us that he wants to do an exam before declaring anything. Fine by me, just tell me that my baby is ok.

I undress and put on the hospital gown and then pull the sheet over my lap. They all come in, I make some stupid joke about how it's a party going on in our room with all these people. The nurse, intern, and doctor smile and lightly laugh at my lame joke. They all already knew.

I put my feet in the stirrups, the intern sits down to look. There’s poking and prodding in my insides, it hurts. Someone says something about blood and something about the sac.

There’s more poking, some pulling, and then someone says something more.

I am sobbing silently looking up at the ceiling. I know that they just removed that tiny being from the safety that is me. It is gone.

I know I am no longer pregnant.

My husband asks the doctor to explain whatever he just said in English. To which the doctor politely tells him, it was a miscarriage.

More poking, prodding, and pulling. There’s some scraping. It all hurts, physically and emotionally, because I know that I am now empty. What they do, they do now for my wellbeing.

The bleeding continues. The contractions, as I’m now told what they are, continue as well. It’s my body’s way of housekeeping.

Our kind doctor gently explains that this was in no way anything we could have anticipated. That this was an act of nature, there was something wrong with the very basics of this little being that my body knew it wouldn’t survive and that it was time to start over. He tells us to not play the “what if” or “blame game”, that there was nothing that could have prevented this, and that going down that hole would not do any good. I believe him.

From there on out it’s a continuous back and forth of waiting for nurses to wheel me from the ultrasound to a new exam room, waiting for doctors to communicate the next step, and then finally one last internal exam to make sure all the remaining tissue is being removed from my body by the contractions. All this takes at least six hours.

During that time my sweet, sweet husband and I have a lot of alone time to sit and mourn together, talk together, and think together. It didn’t take us long to be done crying for the most part, there were times randomly when something we would say or someone else would say that would bring back the tears. Mostly though, we came to a realization.

We realized that our faith had prepared us for such a tragedy. That our choice to believe in the gospel of Jesus Christ would help us through this. I don’t know where we would be without that. That was what we talked about, was how through our commitment to our covenants, we would see this child again as they are sealed to us. That this child just needed to gain a body and that was all. We provided them with that and now it was time to say goodbye for a time.

I take peace in knowing that. I know there was nothing I could do, thinking back about how I treated my body, the body that I shared with this little one, there is very little I could go back and change. And honestly, it still wouldn’t have mattered. Heavenly Father has a plan and it doesn’t always align with our plan. We are not so great that we can change what He wants to be. I know Him to be a loving and caring Father, and I know He would not cause me pain if it was not for my betterment.

I just wish that someone had told me that there was more to a miscarriage than just losing your baby. That there is physical pain, just like a full-term labor. Later on the doctor told me that this was a birth in the literal sense, that my body had gone and was still in labor, it just didn’t result in a live birth. No one tells you that in school, when they warn you of the dangers of teenage pregnancy. They just scare you about all the other things that can go wrong. I guess I was just being naïve about it, but really, think about it. When you think of miscarriage, you just think of the loss of an unborn child, not what the mother went through.

I guess that’s what makes it all the more painful, all the physical and emotional pain you go through. Your body decides without your consent that it needs to start over from scratch, and in order to do so, it betrays you. It forces you to reject this growing life because your body know that it will not survive. I guess, your body is trying to save you the even greater heart ache of having a more developed child to lose. So, while it may feel like a betrayal, it’s really a saving grace.

While I hope and pray that no one else must suffer through this, I know it will happen. That there without pain there can be no joy. I have known so many joyful moments, days, and times. I have also experienced many different pains. I know that this pain allows me to be more compassionate, and has opened my heart even more to love. Coming home to my son, I treasured him even more because I was blessed to be given him and to be his mother for all time and eternity. Losing this pregnancy made him all the more amazing to me.

Please don’t think that I didn’t appreciate the miracle that is pregnancy, childbirth, and raising a child before this. I did, but I really don’t think we fully value something until we’ve lost it or even never been able to have it. This experience opened my eyes to a whole new level of motherhood, a level where loss is possible and can and will happen.

Did you know that somewhere in the range of 15-20% of women have a miscarriage? That number is so wide open because many don’t even know yet that they are pregnant, but think that they are just having a late cycle and then a heavier than normal flow. And for those who do knowingly have a miscarriage, they feel it’s so taboo to talk about? When I met with my OB for my “Pre-op” appointment about 3 weeks after all this took place, she told me about her personal experiences (plural there) and how she wished more women would communicate about it.

Communication is so healing, listening is so relieving to those who have been through something traumatic like a miscarriage. If anything, this part of my story has taught me to listen more thoroughly and to not just say, “I’m so sorry” but to talk and have a conversation with someone who needs it. It’s put me on the other side of the pain and showed me that people need more than “sorry”, they need understanding.