32 days after my D&E my period returned. I started feeling crampy around day 31 and knew that it was around the corner. I also had tons of bright red cervical mucus on 8/20, so I assumed ovulation would be 8/21 or 8/22, which means that my period is here, pretty much 14 days exactly after I ovulated.
I don't know what to feel. I was recently pregnant; I thought it would be a year before I saw a period again considering I would be breast feeding. I never thought I'd see my period in September 2013.
I also can't believe how quickly the body moves on from the pregnancy. With an empty uterus my body just moved on, reset its program and once again started ovulated, preparing for another pregnancy. How quickly the body forgets, while the heart and mind hold on, desperately hold on. My period feels like it officially closes that physical chapter of my life, the chapter that will forever be known as the "olive chapter". But my mind and heart will keep the chapter open, continuously writing and adding chapter after chapter, composing a book.
I also find some solace in my period, in my body so easily returning to normal. I know that there are some women who would kill for their period to come regularly, and those who required medical intervention in order for their period to return post D&C or D&E; so I should be thankful. Part of me is, believe me, some of the tears I cried when I ovulated, and when I got my period were for the fact that my body seems to desperately want to regulate itself. It seems to be returning to its "before" cycle - and that's more than I could have asked or expected. I'll be thankful for that gift.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
Ten perfect fingers & ten little toes (a poem)
You had ten perfect fingers,
Five on each hand.
I'm reminded of them each time I look at my hand.
And when I hold your father's hand,
I'm reminded that those ten perfect fingers,
Were a combination of ours.
You had ten little toes,
On two itty bitty feet.
Every time I wiggle my toes,
I wonder if you wiggled yours,
When you were inside of me.
You had ten perfect fingers,
and ten little toes,
But you never would have known they were there.
You would have never been able to grab those toes,
Or count on those fingers,
Because the neural wiring
Just wasn't there.
I keep a picture,
Of five of those perfect fingers,
Faced down in my center console,
When I step in to the car I'm reminded of my little angel
watching over me.
I hope where you are,
that you're watching me,
and that you're able to use those ten perfect fingers,
to grab those ten little toes.
I'll never feel your hand in mine,
Those soft fingers will never graze my face.
They'll never grab at my finger,
and hold on for dear life.
My dear angel,
it just wasn't your life.
The millions of tears that I cry,
will never make it your life.
Perhaps one day,
When my time on earth is through,
I'll feel those ten perfect fingers
and I'll kiss those ten little toes.
Copyright 2013 VMHC @ http://myjadedinnocence.blogspot.com/
Five on each hand.
I'm reminded of them each time I look at my hand.
And when I hold your father's hand,
I'm reminded that those ten perfect fingers,
Were a combination of ours.
You had ten little toes,
On two itty bitty feet.
Every time I wiggle my toes,
I wonder if you wiggled yours,
When you were inside of me.
You had ten perfect fingers,
and ten little toes,
But you never would have known they were there.
You would have never been able to grab those toes,
Or count on those fingers,
Because the neural wiring
Just wasn't there.
I keep a picture,
Of five of those perfect fingers,
Faced down in my center console,
When I step in to the car I'm reminded of my little angel
watching over me.
I hope where you are,
that you're watching me,
and that you're able to use those ten perfect fingers,
to grab those ten little toes.
I'll never feel your hand in mine,
Those soft fingers will never graze my face.
They'll never grab at my finger,
and hold on for dear life.
My dear angel,
it just wasn't your life.
The millions of tears that I cry,
will never make it your life.
Perhaps one day,
When my time on earth is through,
I'll feel those ten perfect fingers
and I'll kiss those ten little toes.
Copyright 2013 VMHC @ http://myjadedinnocence.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Grief
Why can't grief be one directional and linear? Why must it be circular, a loop that leads back to nothing but sadness.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Things that exhaust me
things that exhaust me:
- The never ending voice in my head telling me, "I am ok, I will be ok, life will go on."
- Smiling and laughing while out with my friends, because, well, it's "good for me to be out" and it gives the appearance that life is going on
- Life going on, as if nothing has changed
- The fact that everything has in fact changed
- Hiding my tears behind sunglasses
- Feeling like I need to keep my tears from my husband because he has already moved on to acceptance, and we don't need the two of us inhabiting my hell. I don't want to reopen the compartment he has been been able to close.
- My body returning to "empty" (hormone levels, uterus, etc.)
- Knowing that my uterus is in fact empty
- Occasionally hearing the voice that screams, "I am not okay!" and desperately trying to close that compartment
- The seemingly never ending cycle of anger turning to grief turning back to anger
- Wondering why my baby wasn't fit for this earth, when every single day crack addicts and 15 year old girls give birth to physically normal children
- Acclimating myself to our new "normal"
- Accepting that this is our new "normal"
- Remembering that everything has changed
And, ultimately....
- Accepting the fact that I had absolutely no control over what happened, and have no control over future pregnancies.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Maternal v. Paternal Grief & Judgement
Friday night C and I had dinner with 2 other couples. Both couples suffered losses later in their pregnancy. 2 of the losses were TFMR, and 1 was an actually delivery and loss incredibly late in her last trimester.
While we feel alone, we are not alone. We are never, ever alone. Shame, grief, and deep sadness may keep us from sharing our stories, from being straight forward and broaching the statement.
I am a mother; yet the most important decision I made for my child was the decision to end his life before it even properly began. This decision was the ultimate act of love, of compassion, of empathy that we could have given to him. We ceased his suffering, and we made the decision to shoulder it on our own. There is no shame in that decision. There may be people who try to vilify C and I for decision; but those people do not understand. You don't understand the position anyone who opts to TFMR until you sit in their shoes. When you're laying on the table, or sitting in an uncomfortable chair, and expert after expert is telling you the same thing; that if they were in your shoes, they would end it all. Do you know how hard it is to stare someone in the eye, and tell them that their 20 week old fetus, an amalgamation of two people so in love that they created a child, that their little one is missing a vital organ, or a piece of their brain, and will never, ever live a day on their own? Or if that they do have the opportunity to breathe a few gulps of air, they will be in infinite pain and will remain that way until they pass ? Do you know how difficult those words are to deliver to a couple whose hands are intertwined beyond belief, with tears running down their cheeks, their hearts in pieces on the floor, and their minds and souls on another world? Until you have had to give or receive this information, you have absolutely no right to judge anyone sitting in those seats. You have no right to judge or condemn the couple whose ultimate act of love and compassion is to opt to shoulder a lifetime of pain.
Millions of women cry every Mother's Day; women cry for the children they have lost, for the children they are yet to have. Women cry for the children they desperately want; whether they be babies who never graced the earth on their own, or babies that couples dreams about daily, and hoping beyond hope to one day conceive.
These women cry in silence; grieve in silence. Walk into the bedroom and shut the door, and sob either guttural sobs or silent tears for the babies that have been taken from them. Babies conceived in love; fetuses only weeks or months old, already cocooned in the love, hopes and dreams of their parents and their grandparents. Millions of tears fall on Mother's Day; millions of fake smiles are worn, nods of understanding exchanged. But, these women push down their feelings, and continue with the day, continue with their lives, because if they do not, if they give into the pain, to the loneliness, than they lose the hope of becoming a mother. And the loss of that hope, is a tragedy far beyond comprehension.
Many of these couples have other children. They continue parenting their other children, despite the pain. They push it aside and continue to be role models and pillars of strength for their other children. But, when someone asks them how many children they have, they pause. They count the number of living children, and this is the answer that the person expects, but some of these women desperately want to include the the children who didn't make it; the ones that live in on their heart, mind and soul. The children who may never run around the living room, but are constantly running around their mind.
Then there are the men. The men who were waiting, ready to become fathers. Whose chests once filled with pride as they told others of their impending new addition. As they shared memories of their childhood, and what they couldn't wait to show and teach their sons. Eagerly awaiting the chance to meet their little boy, to show him the ways of the world, to educate him and to help him become a respectable man of the world. These men were also hoping to feel a tiny hand in theirs; and a little voice saying, "I want to be like you dad.". Words that now are only a distant memory, and a hope for the future.
Some of these men were preparing for daughters. For dresses, for pearls, or for softball, and field hockey; whatever their little girl desired. They were already fiercely protective of their little angel from the moment they heard they would have a daughter. Part of them changed. Their protective, paternal instincts kicked in. They would look at their wives and imagine their daughters as mini-versions of their wives; intensely beautiful, inside and out. And now, that image, is one that will be forever frozen in time; compartmentalized in the recesses of their brain, only to be opened in moments of weakness; perhaps on Father's Day.
I feel for C in a way I don't feel for myself. I know our pain and our paths of grief are different. I carried Olive for 20 weeks; because we had lost before, C was reserved, and it wasn't until we passed the first trimester that he began kissing my stomach good-bye every morning, saying good-bye to his son. He stopped doing that on 8/24, as it was late on 8/23 that we knew that our son was likely not fit for this world. C witnessed my break down, but held my hand through it all. Through every second consultation, through every visit to the ER when we thought it may finally be over. He watched his wife be torn to pieces while in his mind his hopes for his son, his future of fatherhood, shattered. The man even held my hand while the laminaria was inserted, as I sobbed, both from pain/discomfort, and from knowing that this very procedure confirmed the end of our son's life.
C had always imagined I would break his hand during delivery, while his son was entering the world around his estimated arrival date; he never imagined I would be doing it nearly 4 months early, when we both knew the baby would never survive.
The loss of a fetus, or a baby, whichever term you prefer to use, that brings you peace, is a record that doesn't stop; it's a soundtrack that is played on repeat; a symphony whose movements transition from joy and happiness, to sadness and despair in an instant. And this song plays indefinitely in your mind, and it radiates through you, and it influences every decision you make; whether or not you even realize it. Life changes. Life is never the same.
While we feel alone, we are not alone. We are never, ever alone. Shame, grief, and deep sadness may keep us from sharing our stories, from being straight forward and broaching the statement.
I am a mother; yet the most important decision I made for my child was the decision to end his life before it even properly began. This decision was the ultimate act of love, of compassion, of empathy that we could have given to him. We ceased his suffering, and we made the decision to shoulder it on our own. There is no shame in that decision. There may be people who try to vilify C and I for decision; but those people do not understand. You don't understand the position anyone who opts to TFMR until you sit in their shoes. When you're laying on the table, or sitting in an uncomfortable chair, and expert after expert is telling you the same thing; that if they were in your shoes, they would end it all. Do you know how hard it is to stare someone in the eye, and tell them that their 20 week old fetus, an amalgamation of two people so in love that they created a child, that their little one is missing a vital organ, or a piece of their brain, and will never, ever live a day on their own? Or if that they do have the opportunity to breathe a few gulps of air, they will be in infinite pain and will remain that way until they pass ? Do you know how difficult those words are to deliver to a couple whose hands are intertwined beyond belief, with tears running down their cheeks, their hearts in pieces on the floor, and their minds and souls on another world? Until you have had to give or receive this information, you have absolutely no right to judge anyone sitting in those seats. You have no right to judge or condemn the couple whose ultimate act of love and compassion is to opt to shoulder a lifetime of pain.
These women cry in silence; grieve in silence. Walk into the bedroom and shut the door, and sob either guttural sobs or silent tears for the babies that have been taken from them. Babies conceived in love; fetuses only weeks or months old, already cocooned in the love, hopes and dreams of their parents and their grandparents. Millions of tears fall on Mother's Day; millions of fake smiles are worn, nods of understanding exchanged. But, these women push down their feelings, and continue with the day, continue with their lives, because if they do not, if they give into the pain, to the loneliness, than they lose the hope of becoming a mother. And the loss of that hope, is a tragedy far beyond comprehension.
Many of these couples have other children. They continue parenting their other children, despite the pain. They push it aside and continue to be role models and pillars of strength for their other children. But, when someone asks them how many children they have, they pause. They count the number of living children, and this is the answer that the person expects, but some of these women desperately want to include the the children who didn't make it; the ones that live in on their heart, mind and soul. The children who may never run around the living room, but are constantly running around their mind.
Then there are the men. The men who were waiting, ready to become fathers. Whose chests once filled with pride as they told others of their impending new addition. As they shared memories of their childhood, and what they couldn't wait to show and teach their sons. Eagerly awaiting the chance to meet their little boy, to show him the ways of the world, to educate him and to help him become a respectable man of the world. These men were also hoping to feel a tiny hand in theirs; and a little voice saying, "I want to be like you dad.". Words that now are only a distant memory, and a hope for the future.
Some of these men were preparing for daughters. For dresses, for pearls, or for softball, and field hockey; whatever their little girl desired. They were already fiercely protective of their little angel from the moment they heard they would have a daughter. Part of them changed. Their protective, paternal instincts kicked in. They would look at their wives and imagine their daughters as mini-versions of their wives; intensely beautiful, inside and out. And now, that image, is one that will be forever frozen in time; compartmentalized in the recesses of their brain, only to be opened in moments of weakness; perhaps on Father's Day.
I feel for C in a way I don't feel for myself. I know our pain and our paths of grief are different. I carried Olive for 20 weeks; because we had lost before, C was reserved, and it wasn't until we passed the first trimester that he began kissing my stomach good-bye every morning, saying good-bye to his son. He stopped doing that on 8/24, as it was late on 8/23 that we knew that our son was likely not fit for this world. C witnessed my break down, but held my hand through it all. Through every second consultation, through every visit to the ER when we thought it may finally be over. He watched his wife be torn to pieces while in his mind his hopes for his son, his future of fatherhood, shattered. The man even held my hand while the laminaria was inserted, as I sobbed, both from pain/discomfort, and from knowing that this very procedure confirmed the end of our son's life.
C had always imagined I would break his hand during delivery, while his son was entering the world around his estimated arrival date; he never imagined I would be doing it nearly 4 months early, when we both knew the baby would never survive.
The loss of a fetus, or a baby, whichever term you prefer to use, that brings you peace, is a record that doesn't stop; it's a soundtrack that is played on repeat; a symphony whose movements transition from joy and happiness, to sadness and despair in an instant. And this song plays indefinitely in your mind, and it radiates through you, and it influences every decision you make; whether or not you even realize it. Life changes. Life is never the same.
Small acts of kindness
I like to acknowledge small acts of kindness; especially those that truly go a long way with the recipient.
Today's acknowledgment, and thank you goes out to the obgyn I saw for 6 years, and had to transfer out of when I hit 1 weeks. She saw me through multiple miscarriages, comforted DH & I when we lost in January, and was genuinely so happy for us when we got pregnant this time. She told me when she saw ultrasound pics on her desk - she cheered for us. She also called me when she heard the 18 week prognosis from my current ob, just to see how I was doing.
On Friday I was waiting for my re-check I heard my phone vibrating. I couldn't answer it, but when I finally got to it, noticed the number resembled that of my normal obgyn. At my 12 week ultrasound my core ob finally congratulated me on my pregnancy (she knew up to that point I was too scared to hear that word), hugged me, and told me she would miss me. She said that at my 11 week scan (post a bleeding episode) the u/s tech handed her the u/s images she started cheering, because she was so happy that the blood was benign.
Well, it was my original ob that was calling Friday morning. her voicemail made me cry. She called just to tell me she was thinking of DH & I, hoping that we are well, and that if we ever need someone to talk to about this pregnancy, or as we approach the next, that her door is always open to us. The fact that I randomly crossed her mind, and that she actually picked up the phone just to ask, "How ARE you?", actually caring about the response, means so much to me. In my occupation I work with physicians on a daily basis, and so few of them actually move me and remind me that there are doctors who go above and beyond their typical call of duty. (oncologists & REs generally being the exception to this statement.)
Right now, I am floored by the kindness of this doctor and the fact that she went out of her way to call me. Just to say she was thinking of me, just to make sure I'm okay.. I'll call her back this week and thank her, and I hope she will be able to understand me through my tears - tears that are a mix of gratitude and genuine sadness.
Today's acknowledgment, and thank you goes out to the obgyn I saw for 6 years, and had to transfer out of when I hit 1 weeks. She saw me through multiple miscarriages, comforted DH & I when we lost in January, and was genuinely so happy for us when we got pregnant this time. She told me when she saw ultrasound pics on her desk - she cheered for us. She also called me when she heard the 18 week prognosis from my current ob, just to see how I was doing.
On Friday I was waiting for my re-check I heard my phone vibrating. I couldn't answer it, but when I finally got to it, noticed the number resembled that of my normal obgyn. At my 12 week ultrasound my core ob finally congratulated me on my pregnancy (she knew up to that point I was too scared to hear that word), hugged me, and told me she would miss me. She said that at my 11 week scan (post a bleeding episode) the u/s tech handed her the u/s images she started cheering, because she was so happy that the blood was benign.
Well, it was my original ob that was calling Friday morning. her voicemail made me cry. She called just to tell me she was thinking of DH & I, hoping that we are well, and that if we ever need someone to talk to about this pregnancy, or as we approach the next, that her door is always open to us. The fact that I randomly crossed her mind, and that she actually picked up the phone just to ask, "How ARE you?", actually caring about the response, means so much to me. In my occupation I work with physicians on a daily basis, and so few of them actually move me and remind me that there are doctors who go above and beyond their typical call of duty. (oncologists & REs generally being the exception to this statement.)
Right now, I am floored by the kindness of this doctor and the fact that she went out of her way to call me. Just to say she was thinking of me, just to make sure I'm okay.. I'll call her back this week and thank her, and I hope she will be able to understand me through my tears - tears that are a mix of gratitude and genuine sadness.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Quotes & Statistics
Whenever anyone quoted statistics to me, saying, "oh, the odds are 1:1,000,000". All I could think about was that 1. That regardless of the number on the right, there's still a number 1 on the left side. And every time I met a pregnant woman, a successful pregnant woman, I thought to myself, well, you are one of the 1,000,000. When I was a member of a pregnancy forum, I actually sat there and thought, "all of us will not make it. at various points, people will begin to leave.". Inevitably, I was one of those people. I was the dreaded number of the left side of the statistic. I can only happen that I can be that number only once. I can come to term with the early miscarriages, where the chances are as high as 25% - perhaps I've just been unlucky.
But, just once, I only need it to be just ONCE, I'd like to be the number on the right. I'm always the number on the right when it comes to the lottery, and contests, and everything fantastic; I'm never that 1, never when I want to be the 1. Now I am the one, and I pray with all my might to a god I don't even know exists, that for once, I can be in the 'normal' distribution. Why is that so much to ask? Why is that seemingly so difficult?
I don't have much energy to type much more tonight, so a few of my favorite quotes about loss...
~~~~~~~
I carry you with me into the world, into the smell of rain & the words that dance between people & for me, it will always be this way, walking in the light, remembering being alive together. - Brian Andreas
I never knew emptiness could weigh so much, she said. I can barely hold it. So he sat beside her & reached for her hand, and they held it together. - Brian Andreas
But, just once, I only need it to be just ONCE, I'd like to be the number on the right. I'm always the number on the right when it comes to the lottery, and contests, and everything fantastic; I'm never that 1, never when I want to be the 1. Now I am the one, and I pray with all my might to a god I don't even know exists, that for once, I can be in the 'normal' distribution. Why is that so much to ask? Why is that seemingly so difficult?
I don't have much energy to type much more tonight, so a few of my favorite quotes about loss...
~~~~~~~
I carry you with me into the world, into the smell of rain & the words that dance between people & for me, it will always be this way, walking in the light, remembering being alive together. - Brian Andreas
I never knew emptiness could weigh so much, she said. I can barely hold it. So he sat beside her & reached for her hand, and they held it together. - Brian Andreas
♥ “Each new life,no matter how brief, forever changes the world.”
♥ ”There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms.” -Charlotte Bronte
♥ “There is no foot too small that it cannot leave an imprint on this world.”
♥ “Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.” W.S. Merwin
♥ “I held you every second of your life.” -Stephanie Paige Cole
♥ “We are grieving, We are not contagious, We are not sad all the time, We laugh, We smile, We cry, We weep for being happy, We live, We talk, We feel, We come from every background, We are sad, we lost a baby, We are…” -Jennifer Davis
♥ “Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.” -Gandhi
♥ ”It has been said time heals all wounds… I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind protecting it’s sanity covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens, but it’s never gone…” -Rose Kennedy
♥ “How very quietly you tiptoed into our world, silently, only a moment you stayed. But what an imprint your footprints have left upon our hearts.’” -Unknown
♥ “If I had lost a leg, I would tell them, instead of a boy, no one would ever ask me if I was ‘over’ it. They would ask me how I was doing learning to walk without my leg. I was learning to walk and to breath and to live without Wade. And what I was learning is that it was never going to be the life I had before.” -Elizabeth Edwards
♥ “It’s a happy life, but someone is missing. It’s a happy life, and someone is missing.” -Elizabeth McCracken, An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination
♥ “Do not judge the bereaved mother.
She comes in many forms.
She is breathing, but she is dying.
She may look young, but inside she has become ancient.
She smiles, but her heart sobs.
She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works, she IS,
but she IS NOT, all at once.
She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity.”
She comes in many forms.
She is breathing, but she is dying.
She may look young, but inside she has become ancient.
She smiles, but her heart sobs.
She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works, she IS,
but she IS NOT, all at once.
She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity.”
♥ “Hope is the feeling that the feeling you have isn’t permanent.” -Jean Kerr
♥ “Hope is all I have left; if I lose hope, I lose everything. I refuse to go there just yet. I'll hope for the future, because without that, there is no future." VMHC
Most of the above are from http://facesofloss.com/resources/quotes - credit given to the author when the name was available.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Mind fuck
The actual D&E was on 8/2, and after a week of bleeding, it seemed to start to slow down on Friday. I was so happy with seeing barely nothing. I thought I'd finally be able to put the physical piece behind me, along with the fears of losing my uterus.
Then, today, while making dinner, it returns! And it's the most terrible, awful feeling in the entire world. It's amazing how a single sensation can send shudders down your spine, cause you to break out into a sweat and drop your stomach to the floor. It's similar to feeling warmth when you're pregnant, but when you're pregnant you also feel your heart literally stop and fall to the floor.
What a mind fuck. I just want the physical portion to be over. I need to put the physical aspects of this hell behind me so I can focus on packaging up the emotional baggage.
Just go away, damnit. Go away and leave me and my uterus to heal in peace.
Then, today, while making dinner, it returns! And it's the most terrible, awful feeling in the entire world. It's amazing how a single sensation can send shudders down your spine, cause you to break out into a sweat and drop your stomach to the floor. It's similar to feeling warmth when you're pregnant, but when you're pregnant you also feel your heart literally stop and fall to the floor.
What a mind fuck. I just want the physical portion to be over. I need to put the physical aspects of this hell behind me so I can focus on packaging up the emotional baggage.
Just go away, damnit. Go away and leave me and my uterus to heal in peace.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Loss impacting others, more guilt & the future
I feel like my main iPhone photo album (when you go to camera -> pictures) is just a linear history of a heart breaking. There are photos of the positive pregnancy test from last July. The one decision I will always regret.
Then there's the positive line from December. I remember that morning so vividly. It was a week and a half after we returned from Paris; our selected locale for trying to conceive for the first time. We thought, how romantic to begin such one of the most loving of endeavors in the most romantic city in the world. I remember putting my hand on my pelvis, and quietly saying "hello.". I remember trying so hard to take a picture of that light, but oh so present line, so I could text it to my sister for confirmation that I wasn't going crazy. It was 12/21. I didn't tell C until Christmas morning. Then I remember on 1/2, making a frittata, happily chopping vegetables, excited to use a new roasted tomato and artichoke spread that I had found at Williams-Sonoma. But then I felt a warmth. And it was like my heart stopped. Instinctively I knew what the warmth meant; I knew that the pregnancy was over. Little did I know that the next couple weeks would be crazy because while I hemorrhaged on 1/2, the pregnancy progressed for at least a week, and completed itself at the end of January. Which is why we didn't try again until the end of March. And, as luck would have it, I have a picture of the positive line from that single March event; it's another picture on my iPhone.
In December (and April) called my doctor for a routine blood test - she likes to monitor hcg levels and progesterone in women who have miscarried. I had all the blood work, received all the confirmations; but never a congratulations. My obgyn office does not congratulate a woman until she passes the first trimester. As someone who has lost, I see why they do this, and I am thankful for this practice. For first time mother's, they sometimes wait until after the 8 week ultrasound confirms a heartbeat. I think that happens more when the women want to be congratulated. I fit solely into the other camp, the one that does not want to be congratulated until the terrifying first trimester is over.
I find it to be so crazy that there are women that go through this process blissfully ignorant; convinced that their pregnancy will result in a baby; screaming immediately from the rooftops. Maybe I'm weird, but I just don't have that in me. There's just so much that can go wrong; so much pain that can be caused; I just can't bring myself to help create hopes and dreams and excitement in others, knowing that in the back of my mind that it may not last. No one but C knew I was pregnant in December - I told him on 12/25 and was able to keep it from his family the entire time, even though we were there for 4 days. Somehow no one noticed I wasn't drinking. Or I made virgin drinks and pretended they contained alcohol. I told my mother only after I miscarried. I'm relieved I did it that way. I'm relieved I saved her the pain of losing that grandchild - or rather, of expecting it to arrive only to find out that it wasn't destined for us.
And, considering for us, no pregnancy has ever truly lasted the test of time, I don't know when I'll again share my pregnancy. This time around we told C's parents on Mother's Day because we had seen the heartbeat and I was about 8 weeks. We told my parents the day after via Facetime because my sister graduated from college on Mother's Day, and I didn't want to take that day from her. I wanted it to be about her, as it should have been.
Next time, I guess we tell after the anatomy scan? After the CVS? I mean, if the amnio and microarray from this pregnancy are clean, then we have to wait until after the anatomy scan as a 'perfect' CVS just wouldn't be enough.
I feel like with every pregnancy I'll be afraid of breaking not only my heart, but the hearts of all of those who love us. How fair is that? How do you deal with those feelings, too? Knowing that the loss touches and breaks the hearts of everyone close to you? I know I'm not responsible for the feelings of others, but once you have caused such intense pain in others, even when it's beyond your control, it's hard to imagine how you will react when put in that place again. My cries for the son I lost are the most primal, guttural screams of pain that I ever knew existed. I contrast that with the joy on my mothers face when she opened the frame containing an ultrasound picture, how she jumped up and down, tears of joy streaming down her face.
All of that is gone now. And I played a role in robbing it from her. From everyone. It's like a highlight reel that runs through my brain that just cannot be stopped. Everyone acts strong for me when they're with me, because they have to put on that facade; but I know that's all it is; a facade. I know that the people we love still break down over this loss. And those close to us with children grab their children and hold them closer, thanking whichever god they believe in that they were not us. Hoping with all hope that they are never us. And our friends who haven't started trying yet probably partly think we are pariahs, and hope that our bad luck/ju-ju won't rub off on them.
This event, these events, will truly reverberate in every word, every action, every decision we make in the future. They have reshaped the way that we look at the world. That song about painting with all the colors of the wind? Well, our palette has forever changed.
Then there's the positive line from December. I remember that morning so vividly. It was a week and a half after we returned from Paris; our selected locale for trying to conceive for the first time. We thought, how romantic to begin such one of the most loving of endeavors in the most romantic city in the world. I remember putting my hand on my pelvis, and quietly saying "hello.". I remember trying so hard to take a picture of that light, but oh so present line, so I could text it to my sister for confirmation that I wasn't going crazy. It was 12/21. I didn't tell C until Christmas morning. Then I remember on 1/2, making a frittata, happily chopping vegetables, excited to use a new roasted tomato and artichoke spread that I had found at Williams-Sonoma. But then I felt a warmth. And it was like my heart stopped. Instinctively I knew what the warmth meant; I knew that the pregnancy was over. Little did I know that the next couple weeks would be crazy because while I hemorrhaged on 1/2, the pregnancy progressed for at least a week, and completed itself at the end of January. Which is why we didn't try again until the end of March. And, as luck would have it, I have a picture of the positive line from that single March event; it's another picture on my iPhone.
In December (and April) called my doctor for a routine blood test - she likes to monitor hcg levels and progesterone in women who have miscarried. I had all the blood work, received all the confirmations; but never a congratulations. My obgyn office does not congratulate a woman until she passes the first trimester. As someone who has lost, I see why they do this, and I am thankful for this practice. For first time mother's, they sometimes wait until after the 8 week ultrasound confirms a heartbeat. I think that happens more when the women want to be congratulated. I fit solely into the other camp, the one that does not want to be congratulated until the terrifying first trimester is over.
I find it to be so crazy that there are women that go through this process blissfully ignorant; convinced that their pregnancy will result in a baby; screaming immediately from the rooftops. Maybe I'm weird, but I just don't have that in me. There's just so much that can go wrong; so much pain that can be caused; I just can't bring myself to help create hopes and dreams and excitement in others, knowing that in the back of my mind that it may not last. No one but C knew I was pregnant in December - I told him on 12/25 and was able to keep it from his family the entire time, even though we were there for 4 days. Somehow no one noticed I wasn't drinking. Or I made virgin drinks and pretended they contained alcohol. I told my mother only after I miscarried. I'm relieved I did it that way. I'm relieved I saved her the pain of losing that grandchild - or rather, of expecting it to arrive only to find out that it wasn't destined for us.
And, considering for us, no pregnancy has ever truly lasted the test of time, I don't know when I'll again share my pregnancy. This time around we told C's parents on Mother's Day because we had seen the heartbeat and I was about 8 weeks. We told my parents the day after via Facetime because my sister graduated from college on Mother's Day, and I didn't want to take that day from her. I wanted it to be about her, as it should have been.
Next time, I guess we tell after the anatomy scan? After the CVS? I mean, if the amnio and microarray from this pregnancy are clean, then we have to wait until after the anatomy scan as a 'perfect' CVS just wouldn't be enough.
I feel like with every pregnancy I'll be afraid of breaking not only my heart, but the hearts of all of those who love us. How fair is that? How do you deal with those feelings, too? Knowing that the loss touches and breaks the hearts of everyone close to you? I know I'm not responsible for the feelings of others, but once you have caused such intense pain in others, even when it's beyond your control, it's hard to imagine how you will react when put in that place again. My cries for the son I lost are the most primal, guttural screams of pain that I ever knew existed. I contrast that with the joy on my mothers face when she opened the frame containing an ultrasound picture, how she jumped up and down, tears of joy streaming down her face.
All of that is gone now. And I played a role in robbing it from her. From everyone. It's like a highlight reel that runs through my brain that just cannot be stopped. Everyone acts strong for me when they're with me, because they have to put on that facade; but I know that's all it is; a facade. I know that the people we love still break down over this loss. And those close to us with children grab their children and hold them closer, thanking whichever god they believe in that they were not us. Hoping with all hope that they are never us. And our friends who haven't started trying yet probably partly think we are pariahs, and hope that our bad luck/ju-ju won't rub off on them.
This event, these events, will truly reverberate in every word, every action, every decision we make in the future. They have reshaped the way that we look at the world. That song about painting with all the colors of the wind? Well, our palette has forever changed.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Guilt
I often feel guilty for never speaking to my son while he was there. In fact, I recall sitting in the car, openly apologizing to him for my lack of verbal communication. I told him I was sorry I couldn't find the words to speak or talk to him, but that I still needed confirmation. I still needed to know that he was in for the long haul. I told him these words when I "thought" he could hear, per the baby books of course, even though I knew he couldn't understand. If he heard anything, he just heard the "blah blah blah"that the Charlie Brown characters hear whenever an adult speaks to him.
But still, I felt so guilty. I would ask C if it was wrong of me. At 18 weeks I was barely showing, it looked like maybe I ate an extra doughnut and couldn't button the top button of my Hudson's - so I bought maternity jeans - the only purchase made that put faith in my being in it for the "long haul". I rarely ever touched my stomach, if I did, it was because I was uncomfortable and wanted to reinforce that there was, in fact, a baby in there. Since he was a little small, it's possible I wasn't showing for that reason, or, it's possible I was bound to be a late shower. My uterus did move up, so next time I may show earlier.
We went to Bellini, PBK, and I had planned a trip to Boston to go to RHB&C to look at nursery furniture. There were a few other specialty shops on the list, but C & I went to Bellini & PBK together. And I'll never forget the day. He fell in love with a set at Bellini and wanted to buy it right there. He was so ready, he was so "in". But I wasn't. My heart was still reserved and told him we had to wait. The saleswoman assured us many times that the most we would lost if we canceled the order was $50. What she didn't realize is that I didn't give a crap about the money. If we were canceling that order it meant that it was because there would be no baby to sleep in it; that no baby would have come home.
I've told my therapist that if we are blessed with a next time, I won't be able to look at the ultrasound monitors or televisions until after the anatomy scan. I won't be able to see anything on the screen. A simple nod from the techs will be enough. I waited until 14 weeks to start a pregnancy journal for this baby. C put all the ultrasound pictures into the book, and put the book in the box, and the box is in storage. All that is left of our son is in storage. Whether or a storage unit, a hospital storage freezer, or recesses of our brans that we refuse to allow ourselves to enter. That is where our son lives now. C made the mistake of reading the journal before he put it in storage. He was glad he did it while I was sleeping because he cried. He cried at my words because my words told even the baby that I waited so long to write in his book, because I couldn't believe he was real, and that he would be coming home to us. In it I wrote the story of the first time C heard his heartbeat via fetal doppler one morning at 9 weeks. We had had 2 ultrasounds at that point and saw Olive, but hearing his fast, strong heartbeat was a completely different experience. C said hello to him and told him he sounded like a train. and then nearly 11 weeks later, he said good-bye.
I wonder if I'll ever stop feeling guilty for thinking maybe I was at fault for not committing 100%; for needing so much to believe that my baby was healthy, and that in December he would be in my arms. But now, with our ending, can you even blame me?
But still, I felt so guilty. I would ask C if it was wrong of me. At 18 weeks I was barely showing, it looked like maybe I ate an extra doughnut and couldn't button the top button of my Hudson's - so I bought maternity jeans - the only purchase made that put faith in my being in it for the "long haul". I rarely ever touched my stomach, if I did, it was because I was uncomfortable and wanted to reinforce that there was, in fact, a baby in there. Since he was a little small, it's possible I wasn't showing for that reason, or, it's possible I was bound to be a late shower. My uterus did move up, so next time I may show earlier.
We went to Bellini, PBK, and I had planned a trip to Boston to go to RHB&C to look at nursery furniture. There were a few other specialty shops on the list, but C & I went to Bellini & PBK together. And I'll never forget the day. He fell in love with a set at Bellini and wanted to buy it right there. He was so ready, he was so "in". But I wasn't. My heart was still reserved and told him we had to wait. The saleswoman assured us many times that the most we would lost if we canceled the order was $50. What she didn't realize is that I didn't give a crap about the money. If we were canceling that order it meant that it was because there would be no baby to sleep in it; that no baby would have come home.
I've told my therapist that if we are blessed with a next time, I won't be able to look at the ultrasound monitors or televisions until after the anatomy scan. I won't be able to see anything on the screen. A simple nod from the techs will be enough. I waited until 14 weeks to start a pregnancy journal for this baby. C put all the ultrasound pictures into the book, and put the book in the box, and the box is in storage. All that is left of our son is in storage. Whether or a storage unit, a hospital storage freezer, or recesses of our brans that we refuse to allow ourselves to enter. That is where our son lives now. C made the mistake of reading the journal before he put it in storage. He was glad he did it while I was sleeping because he cried. He cried at my words because my words told even the baby that I waited so long to write in his book, because I couldn't believe he was real, and that he would be coming home to us. In it I wrote the story of the first time C heard his heartbeat via fetal doppler one morning at 9 weeks. We had had 2 ultrasounds at that point and saw Olive, but hearing his fast, strong heartbeat was a completely different experience. C said hello to him and told him he sounded like a train. and then nearly 11 weeks later, he said good-bye.
I wonder if I'll ever stop feeling guilty for thinking maybe I was at fault for not committing 100%; for needing so much to believe that my baby was healthy, and that in December he would be in my arms. But now, with our ending, can you even blame me?
Friday, August 9, 2013
Thought of the day....
We've had unprotected sex during 4 fertile windows, have gotten 4 positive pregnancy tests, yet have no children. Did you know it's possible to bat .000 while batting 1.000?
It has been a week since my surgery and while awash with emotions, I'm also quite numb. I thought that it would bring me closure, but I feel like it's brought me nothing but grief. The only true closure in a pregnancy is having a living, breathing, kicking baby in your arms. True closure does not come in any other way.
I miss my son. I miss waiting to feel his movements. I miss knowing that he was inside of me, kicking and punching, and sometimes growing. I miss the family that we had planned on becoming this Christmas. I miss me, the woman I was two weeks ago.
I'm so angry at myself because I never believed my little man okay. I used to constantly ask my husband how we would react if something was chronically wrong with him. I rarely talked to him because I was so afraid of losing him. As I may have said earlier, I sobbed during my entire anatomy scan at 18 weeks because I just knew something wasn't right. I left my 13 week early anatomy scan (done at the request of my peri) knowing something just wasn't right, even though no one said it. Everyone tried to pacify me. Asked me if I needed help dealing with my anxiety. It breaks my heart that I was right. It breaks my heart that I didn't show him more love when he was inside of me. That at a point I actually asked him to stop trying so hard. I told him I knew his program was failing, and that it was okay, mom and dad would understand, if it just stopped.
I'm a trained scientist and MBA. I've always found comfort in statistics. I've looked to science and math for answers. And now I feel like they've both failed me. DH and I have become the dreaded black swan. We now inhabit the tail end of a distribution - a harsh, final line on one side, and a vast empty space distancing us from "normalcy" on the other side. I ask myself constantly what I want from the testing - what, if anything will bring me peace. Do I want the microarry to find something that will enable us to jump to IVF with PGD? Do I want the full exome sequencing to be normal?
Do I want to be told oh, just keep trying, you guys at least have good luck getting pregnant? how many more times can we roll the dice ourselves before it breaks us? Do you ever become immune to this pain? When we become pregnant do we just assume that it isn't going to work, live in hell during every moment of the pregnancy, only celebrating when we have a child in our arms? Or do we wait until the threat of SIDs decreases? If we are lucky enough to get pregnant again, when do I start loving that baby? When do I let my guard down, and accept it with open arms? What is our capacity for pain? Do I want to get to a place where I become immune to this pain? When will I be able to love a fetus growing inside me rather than worry it's just going to depart too soon.
It only needs to work once. Just ONCE. I know it's one of the most complex processes (if not the most complex) process, but for millions of people it works every.single.day. I beg to whatever is or isn't out there listening, for us to have that one time. One day.
It has been a week since my surgery and while awash with emotions, I'm also quite numb. I thought that it would bring me closure, but I feel like it's brought me nothing but grief. The only true closure in a pregnancy is having a living, breathing, kicking baby in your arms. True closure does not come in any other way.
I miss my son. I miss waiting to feel his movements. I miss knowing that he was inside of me, kicking and punching, and sometimes growing. I miss the family that we had planned on becoming this Christmas. I miss me, the woman I was two weeks ago.
I'm so angry at myself because I never believed my little man okay. I used to constantly ask my husband how we would react if something was chronically wrong with him. I rarely talked to him because I was so afraid of losing him. As I may have said earlier, I sobbed during my entire anatomy scan at 18 weeks because I just knew something wasn't right. I left my 13 week early anatomy scan (done at the request of my peri) knowing something just wasn't right, even though no one said it. Everyone tried to pacify me. Asked me if I needed help dealing with my anxiety. It breaks my heart that I was right. It breaks my heart that I didn't show him more love when he was inside of me. That at a point I actually asked him to stop trying so hard. I told him I knew his program was failing, and that it was okay, mom and dad would understand, if it just stopped.
I'm a trained scientist and MBA. I've always found comfort in statistics. I've looked to science and math for answers. And now I feel like they've both failed me. DH and I have become the dreaded black swan. We now inhabit the tail end of a distribution - a harsh, final line on one side, and a vast empty space distancing us from "normalcy" on the other side. I ask myself constantly what I want from the testing - what, if anything will bring me peace. Do I want the microarry to find something that will enable us to jump to IVF with PGD? Do I want the full exome sequencing to be normal?
Do I want to be told oh, just keep trying, you guys at least have good luck getting pregnant? how many more times can we roll the dice ourselves before it breaks us? Do you ever become immune to this pain? When we become pregnant do we just assume that it isn't going to work, live in hell during every moment of the pregnancy, only celebrating when we have a child in our arms? Or do we wait until the threat of SIDs decreases? If we are lucky enough to get pregnant again, when do I start loving that baby? When do I let my guard down, and accept it with open arms? What is our capacity for pain? Do I want to get to a place where I become immune to this pain? When will I be able to love a fetus growing inside me rather than worry it's just going to depart too soon.
It only needs to work once. Just ONCE. I know it's one of the most complex processes (if not the most complex) process, but for millions of people it works every.single.day. I beg to whatever is or isn't out there listening, for us to have that one time. One day.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Rolling the dice.
I have a normal karyotype; though we've known this since January.
Awaiting the fetal microarray. Flasks are already for exome sequencing, so DH and I have to go to Columbia and sign off on more paperwork and have more blood drawn.
And, while talking to my genetic counselor, she received a fax.
DH has a normal karyotype. Honestly, I'm shocked. I know on one level this should make me happy because dealing with a translocation isn't really fun; but, it comes with a set path forward. We would have known our path forward. It would have been rocky, uncomfortable, and long; but we would have had a set path.
Awaiting the fetal microarray. Flasks are already for exome sequencing, so DH and I have to go to Columbia and sign off on more paperwork and have more blood drawn.
And, while talking to my genetic counselor, she received a fax.
DH has a normal karyotype. Honestly, I'm shocked. I know on one level this should make me happy because dealing with a translocation isn't really fun; but, it comes with a set path forward. We would have known our path forward. It would have been rocky, uncomfortable, and long; but we would have had a set path.
Unless the microarray or exome sequencing shows something major, it looks like we are going to end up rolling the dice again.
I can't help but feel like even when we get a BFP, I'm still going to roll snake eyes.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Hope
People keep asking, "How do you feel?".
Usually, I don't feel like answering the question. In fact, I never want to answer the question. It's not a question with a simple answer; and it barely has an answer.
My typical response is, "hopeful."
People must sigh with relief when they hear this response. It's clean, it's cut, and it's dry. People don't have to worry about tears, or an onslaught of emotions for which they are unprepared (and sincerely dreading)
People smile when they hear this response, clinging to the thought that we are looking into the future and perhaps moving beyond our past.
But what they don't realize is...
What other response can I give?
If there's no hope, what is left?
Usually, I don't feel like answering the question. In fact, I never want to answer the question. It's not a question with a simple answer; and it barely has an answer.
My typical response is, "hopeful."
People must sigh with relief when they hear this response. It's clean, it's cut, and it's dry. People don't have to worry about tears, or an onslaught of emotions for which they are unprepared (and sincerely dreading)
People smile when they hear this response, clinging to the thought that we are looking into the future and perhaps moving beyond our past.
But what they don't realize is...
What other response can I give?
If there's no hope, what is left?
Monday, August 5, 2013
Can you see us? (A Poem)
Can you see me
Curled up in a fetal position
Sobbing
uncontrollable guttural cries
that come from so deep within
few of us know such crevices even exist.
When we saw you
When we spied on you
thanks to the technology that liberated and confined all of us
us - our family
We learned you loved that position
We watched you punch and kick
when the tech tried to unfurl you
from the fetal position
that you knew so well
but you refused
we called you stubborn, like your dad.
We saw you
But you never saw us.
Can you see us now?
See the people who made you from love
Who created the little you
and loved you from the moment
you presented yourself
as a mere hormone
via a pink line
We made you
and we love you
unconditionally.
Can you see our pain?
How we ache everyday that you are no longer here
that every where there are reminders of the you
even though you no longer exist
outside of your hearts, our minds,
our souls.
You were a piece of us.
The first true piece of us.
An amalgamation of your mother and father
our strengths
our weaknesses
our faults
our visions
And we couldn't wait to watch them transform
into you.
Can you hear us now?
I used to hear your heart beat.
Every morning and every night.
Your father could hear it.
But sometimes you preferred when it was just me.
Our special moment
my spying on you
You with little space to retreat.
It was truly the most beautiful sound
Such a strong sound,
the doctors said,
as they assured me you were right where you should be.
Could you hear us before you left?
Could you hear our voices?
If so I hope you heard our laughs
Our giggles
Our joy
The sound of my heartbeat,
did it lull you to sleep?
Would you recognize it,
if you heard it now?
If you can see us,
and you can hear us,
you hold a precious, precious gift,
and I wish it was through a two way lens
So that we could see you
and know
that you made it alright
That there's no pain anymore
That there's peace where are you are
and that you've come to call it home.
I feel so hollow without you.
But if you can see me,
and you can hear me,
I know that you can also feel me.
When you feel me
You know that without you
Such a vital piece of me is gone.
Which is why you hear the guttural sobs
and see the constant embraces between your father and I
that leave me weak in the knees
is because I can no longer feel you.
The next time you look at us,
The next time you touch us,
I hope to feel the warmth of your little hands radiate from within
telling me
that you will always
see us
hear us
and fill me with your warmth.
Curled up in a fetal position
Sobbing
uncontrollable guttural cries
that come from so deep within
few of us know such crevices even exist.
When we saw you
When we spied on you
thanks to the technology that liberated and confined all of us
us - our family
We learned you loved that position
We watched you punch and kick
when the tech tried to unfurl you
from the fetal position
that you knew so well
but you refused
we called you stubborn, like your dad.
We saw you
But you never saw us.
Can you see us now?
See the people who made you from love
Who created the little you
and loved you from the moment
you presented yourself
as a mere hormone
via a pink line
We made you
and we love you
unconditionally.
Can you see our pain?
How we ache everyday that you are no longer here
that every where there are reminders of the you
even though you no longer exist
outside of your hearts, our minds,
our souls.
You were a piece of us.
The first true piece of us.
An amalgamation of your mother and father
our strengths
our weaknesses
our faults
our visions
And we couldn't wait to watch them transform
into you.
Can you hear us now?
I used to hear your heart beat.
Every morning and every night.
Your father could hear it.
But sometimes you preferred when it was just me.
Our special moment
my spying on you
You with little space to retreat.
It was truly the most beautiful sound
Such a strong sound,
the doctors said,
as they assured me you were right where you should be.
Could you hear us before you left?
Could you hear our voices?
If so I hope you heard our laughs
Our giggles
Our joy
The sound of my heartbeat,
did it lull you to sleep?
Would you recognize it,
if you heard it now?
If you can see us,
and you can hear us,
you hold a precious, precious gift,
and I wish it was through a two way lens
So that we could see you
and know
that you made it alright
That there's no pain anymore
That there's peace where are you are
and that you've come to call it home.
I feel so hollow without you.
But if you can see me,
and you can hear me,
I know that you can also feel me.
When you feel me
You know that without you
Such a vital piece of me is gone.
Which is why you hear the guttural sobs
and see the constant embraces between your father and I
that leave me weak in the knees
is because I can no longer feel you.
The next time you look at us,
The next time you touch us,
I hope to feel the warmth of your little hands radiate from within
telling me
that you will always
see us
hear us
and fill me with your warmth.
Happiness?
I feel like every day I'm greeted by the happy news of others. Engagements, weddings, anniversaries, baby announcements. The stack of thick envelopes on our counter grows thicker and thicker by the day.
But what about MY happiness!?!?!? Why wasn't I good enough for happiness!?!? What did I do to deserve to have my happiness ripped out from underneath me? To have to endure the moments, hours, days, that people only think occur in their nightmares, or to bad people, or to people who deserved to have their happiness stolen from them, like a magician's final trick.
Where are my smiles?? Where are my laughs?? When do the guttural sobs or biting my tongue while tears silently march down my cheeks, when do they stop? When do they make the change over to joy, excitement and happiness?
Why wasn't I good enough for happiness? Why, out of everyone in this world, was it taken from me? From us? When do we start moving from the hell that is statistical significance, to the rest of the insignificant world? When do we rejoin the living???
But what about MY happiness!?!?!? Why wasn't I good enough for happiness!?!? What did I do to deserve to have my happiness ripped out from underneath me? To have to endure the moments, hours, days, that people only think occur in their nightmares, or to bad people, or to people who deserved to have their happiness stolen from them, like a magician's final trick.
Where are my smiles?? Where are my laughs?? When do the guttural sobs or biting my tongue while tears silently march down my cheeks, when do they stop? When do they make the change over to joy, excitement and happiness?
Why wasn't I good enough for happiness? Why, out of everyone in this world, was it taken from me? From us? When do we start moving from the hell that is statistical significance, to the rest of the insignificant world? When do we rejoin the living???
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Tails
Tails are supposed to be cute. Before, I would picture a tiny marmalade kitten with big blue eyes attached to a tail. Or, a curly tail attached to a chubby little pug as it strolls down Madison Avenue with its owner.
Now when I think of tails all I can picture are bell curves. Bernoulli distributions. Deviations from the mean. How many multiples from the mean are you? Have you ever been a "black swan"? Ever been struck by lightening? Have you ever inhabited the tail end of a "normal" distribution?
Once you've existed in the tails, looked to your right and seen a firm line; an ending; and looked to your right and seen a vastness of empty, uninhabited space, you wonder if you'll ever get out of the tail. You wonder what it's like to be statistically "normal". "It's a once in a lifetime event." they say, as if this is some sort of comfort. It's not. There is no comfort in telling someone that they are the statistically improbability that few talk about and everyone fears.
I miss the other sort of tail. I miss looking at my cat's curling or quivering tail, and smiling. Now when I see a tail, all I can picture is what has been lost, and I can't even imagine putting any of it back together.
Now when I think of tails all I can picture are bell curves. Bernoulli distributions. Deviations from the mean. How many multiples from the mean are you? Have you ever been a "black swan"? Ever been struck by lightening? Have you ever inhabited the tail end of a "normal" distribution?
Once you've existed in the tails, looked to your right and seen a firm line; an ending; and looked to your right and seen a vastness of empty, uninhabited space, you wonder if you'll ever get out of the tail. You wonder what it's like to be statistically "normal". "It's a once in a lifetime event." they say, as if this is some sort of comfort. It's not. There is no comfort in telling someone that they are the statistically improbability that few talk about and everyone fears.
I miss the other sort of tail. I miss looking at my cat's curling or quivering tail, and smiling. Now when I see a tail, all I can picture is what has been lost, and I can't even imagine putting any of it back together.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Anger
I'm so angry right now.
I'm so mad that we have to start all over again. That (hopefully) we will have the opportunity to once more go through 18 weeks of hell, with hope and prayers for a better outcome.
I'm so angry that it will literally be hell, that so much was taken from us, and that so much of the future has been taken from us unjustly.
I'm so angry at myself for feeling like I gave up on my little boy. What if he just needed more time? What if all the experts were wrong, and everything would have righted itself if we just gave it more time?
I'm so angry that at this time yesterday my uterus was full of life, and right now it's hollow.
I'm so angry that my husband now has to tell people that he's not going to be a dad. That I now cringe whenever I see a father with his son. I'm so angry that he has been robbed of this opportunity, that his son had to die.
I'm so angry that nothing will ever make this better.
I'm so mad that we have to start all over again. That (hopefully) we will have the opportunity to once more go through 18 weeks of hell, with hope and prayers for a better outcome.
I'm so angry that it will literally be hell, that so much was taken from us, and that so much of the future has been taken from us unjustly.
I'm so angry at myself for feeling like I gave up on my little boy. What if he just needed more time? What if all the experts were wrong, and everything would have righted itself if we just gave it more time?
I'm so angry that at this time yesterday my uterus was full of life, and right now it's hollow.
I'm so angry that my husband now has to tell people that he's not going to be a dad. That I now cringe whenever I see a father with his son. I'm so angry that he has been robbed of this opportunity, that his son had to die.
I'm so angry that nothing will ever make this better.
Surgery, Recovery and Day 1
My surgery itself appears to have gone well. The doctor called it 'straightforward' and it took only about 16 minutes. Amazing that it took olive almost 5 months to come to that point in it's little life, not to mention the difficult journey it takes for egg to meet sperm, etc., and only 16 minutes to end it. The nursing staff was so kind to DH and I - he asked if we should send them an edible arrangement or something to thank them. They made the most difficult day of our lives a little more tolerable (and comfortable in terms of drugs <for me, not DH>) that's the most one can ask. We got the impression most procedures they see are unwanted pregnancies, so I think that to see two people feeling such obvious grief and pain was a change for nursing staff.
DH's pain was palpable yesterday. I saw in his eyes when he was saying good bye, and he told me multiple times that it isn't fair that I had to be the one to go through it. How much it hurt him to see me in so much (emotional) pain and undergoing surgery. For me, it was a full 100% onslaught of non-stop pain. I thought I detached a bit the last week, but yesterday all I could think about was every ultrasound. Of seeing his heart beat for the first time, seeing his little arms and legs flailing about on the tv screen. DH laughing and smiling as he observed his son. Oh, how the memories make my heart swell with pain, but at the same time leave me with the hope that we will one day be there again.
I left the hospital feeling more hopeful, and feeling a bit more of the closure that was so needed. I didn't by any means feel peace, but part of me felt hopeful for the future, and that hopeful that maybe this Christmas we will receive the same present we did last year - a BFP. Though we lost that pregnancy on 1/2/13 (and this one officially on 8/2/13); so I don't like the 2nd day of each month and I don't really like the year 2013. So, maybe I'll have to temper my hope for 2014.
This morning I'm angry for something that will likely make me angry for a long time. I'm mad that life continues to go on exactly as it did before; in the ultimate scope of the world, what happened to us and our physical pain, is just a blip on the radar. The sun will continue to rise and set, rain will fall (oh, how I wish rain would fall), and life will just go on. And with that our lives will go on. Every single morning I'm reminded that our lives will go on. As I've said before, that doesn't mean they will be any easier, or that they will be without pain or reminders, but the world truly will go on. And we have two options - we either slowly wade back into it, or we stand from the sidelines and we watch. Right now, watching may feel right, and it may feel easier, but in the long run, it's not right,
Olive, we miss you so much. You have left a hole in our hearts and our lives that will never, ever be filled. We can continue to fill it with love and remorse, but it will never truly be filled. I've never really believed in heaven, the logical side of my brain has a difficult time with such a concept, but I do hope that if there is one, that you have found it, and that you were welcomed in with open arms. At this moment in time I cannot let myself believe that there isn't a heaven, or that there isn't more to life than what we see, because I cannot and will not believe that you are truly gone and that your tiny little life in my uterus was all in vain. If I let myself believe that; then that's an entirely different battle that I end up losing, and right now I will let myself believe that my logical brain in wrong. I've never wanted to be wrong before (well, other than when deep down I knew that there just wasn't something right during your development).
While I was in recovery, being forced to drink apple juice and eat a muffin, I requested to speak to the on-site clergy. He was very kind, a Presbyterian minister who graduated from Princeton 2 years after DH and them went on to the seminary school. I spoke to him alone, as DH is still firmly an atheist, and while I am more agnostic, I requested to speak to him because I wanted to know what he would tell someone in my position. If he would tell me that this happened because God wanted my baby, or that my baby was too beautiful for this world. Thankfully he didn't say either of these, and was able to engage in the type of theoretical, existential conversation I needed, and at the end of the day he conceded that he too had no answers. He told me that he believes that rather than having a larger plan for everyone, God is with is constantly, walking beside us as we face this life. As a scientist I think I'll eventually find a place for faith and logic to co-exist, but right now I feel like both have failed me. In a Darwinian fashion I was told that in this case my DH & I's genes were not fit to reproduce, and that our little one was not the fittest. For a geneticist, there is much pain in that. My logical brain can rationalize and accept that, but it's not particularly comforting.
Today I face the challenge of moving, as just me. It's the first day in nearly 5 months, that it's really just me. That's a very uncomfortable truth.
I did learn that Tiffany has an olive branch line this year, so this morning we are going to pick up a few pieces. Anything with his birthstone would be too painful because he never it made it to his birthday, but I know that these, more subtle pieces, will be a gentle reminder that I can touch or grab when I need to feel just a little closer to olive. For that who do not know, olive branch means peace, and while we called him olive and not olive branch, I still like to think that the name is appropriate.
DH's pain was palpable yesterday. I saw in his eyes when he was saying good bye, and he told me multiple times that it isn't fair that I had to be the one to go through it. How much it hurt him to see me in so much (emotional) pain and undergoing surgery. For me, it was a full 100% onslaught of non-stop pain. I thought I detached a bit the last week, but yesterday all I could think about was every ultrasound. Of seeing his heart beat for the first time, seeing his little arms and legs flailing about on the tv screen. DH laughing and smiling as he observed his son. Oh, how the memories make my heart swell with pain, but at the same time leave me with the hope that we will one day be there again.
I left the hospital feeling more hopeful, and feeling a bit more of the closure that was so needed. I didn't by any means feel peace, but part of me felt hopeful for the future, and that hopeful that maybe this Christmas we will receive the same present we did last year - a BFP. Though we lost that pregnancy on 1/2/13 (and this one officially on 8/2/13); so I don't like the 2nd day of each month and I don't really like the year 2013. So, maybe I'll have to temper my hope for 2014.
This morning I'm angry for something that will likely make me angry for a long time. I'm mad that life continues to go on exactly as it did before; in the ultimate scope of the world, what happened to us and our physical pain, is just a blip on the radar. The sun will continue to rise and set, rain will fall (oh, how I wish rain would fall), and life will just go on. And with that our lives will go on. Every single morning I'm reminded that our lives will go on. As I've said before, that doesn't mean they will be any easier, or that they will be without pain or reminders, but the world truly will go on. And we have two options - we either slowly wade back into it, or we stand from the sidelines and we watch. Right now, watching may feel right, and it may feel easier, but in the long run, it's not right,
Olive, we miss you so much. You have left a hole in our hearts and our lives that will never, ever be filled. We can continue to fill it with love and remorse, but it will never truly be filled. I've never really believed in heaven, the logical side of my brain has a difficult time with such a concept, but I do hope that if there is one, that you have found it, and that you were welcomed in with open arms. At this moment in time I cannot let myself believe that there isn't a heaven, or that there isn't more to life than what we see, because I cannot and will not believe that you are truly gone and that your tiny little life in my uterus was all in vain. If I let myself believe that; then that's an entirely different battle that I end up losing, and right now I will let myself believe that my logical brain in wrong. I've never wanted to be wrong before (well, other than when deep down I knew that there just wasn't something right during your development).
While I was in recovery, being forced to drink apple juice and eat a muffin, I requested to speak to the on-site clergy. He was very kind, a Presbyterian minister who graduated from Princeton 2 years after DH and them went on to the seminary school. I spoke to him alone, as DH is still firmly an atheist, and while I am more agnostic, I requested to speak to him because I wanted to know what he would tell someone in my position. If he would tell me that this happened because God wanted my baby, or that my baby was too beautiful for this world. Thankfully he didn't say either of these, and was able to engage in the type of theoretical, existential conversation I needed, and at the end of the day he conceded that he too had no answers. He told me that he believes that rather than having a larger plan for everyone, God is with is constantly, walking beside us as we face this life. As a scientist I think I'll eventually find a place for faith and logic to co-exist, but right now I feel like both have failed me. In a Darwinian fashion I was told that in this case my DH & I's genes were not fit to reproduce, and that our little one was not the fittest. For a geneticist, there is much pain in that. My logical brain can rationalize and accept that, but it's not particularly comforting.
Today I face the challenge of moving, as just me. It's the first day in nearly 5 months, that it's really just me. That's a very uncomfortable truth.
I did learn that Tiffany has an olive branch line this year, so this morning we are going to pick up a few pieces. Anything with his birthstone would be too painful because he never it made it to his birthday, but I know that these, more subtle pieces, will be a gentle reminder that I can touch or grab when I need to feel just a little closer to olive. For that who do not know, olive branch means peace, and while we called him olive and not olive branch, I still like to think that the name is appropriate.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Final night
This is the last night I will go to sleep with my little man sleeping soundly in my uterus.
I'm agnostic, but I pray little man that you find wings and the doorway to heaven tomorrow.
We love you, and we already miss you so much. I have never felt so much love for someone I never met. You will always be a part of me, and always in my heart.
I'm agnostic, but I pray little man that you find wings and the doorway to heaven tomorrow.
We love you, and we already miss you so much. I have never felt so much love for someone I never met. You will always be a part of me, and always in my heart.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Lots of blogging today
Today I'm vacillating between anger and depression. I'm also feeling a ton of resentment. I'm jealous of women who post their positive pregnancy test on Facebook immediately. I wound never, EVER wish any pain or ill will on them, but I'm jealous that I will never and could never have that experience. That any future excitement C and I feel will be tempered and pushed down by fear and anxiety. I have absolutely no idea when I would think the next pregnancy is "okay" - probably once the apgar results are in and little one is in my arms. Right now everything that just feels tainted. I feel like we have lost so much innocence in this process and it makes me so, so angry. I was so relieved that we were almost halfway through this pregnancy; I was starting to quiet down the scientist/geneticist in me, but now, she's thriving, she's taking control, and she's so angry. I never expected to inhabit the tail ends of a normal distribution (does anyone?); yet here we are, trying desperately to learn to cope with it and to figure out where we go from here.
This pregnancy I was never calm; I was never confident that things were all well down in fetus land. I refused to announce, and believed that announcing before the anatomy scan would be premature. At the end of the day, I am at peace with this choice. This means there are few people that we have to tell that our little man is not one for this world.
My D&E is scheduled for Friday. I've consulted my OB, my local peri, and had a day of testing at Columbia-NY Presbyterian, and all are in agreement that there is an underlying syndrome at play here and little one will pass on his own, and that at this point, the D&E is the best path forward. No one second guessed me; the medical professionals were in complete agreement with the decision.
I'm not scared of the surgery; well, I am in that I'm terrified of waking to find that something went tragically wrong and I am now sans uterus. I'm more scared of tomorrow; the prep for the procedure. I have a very difficult time with having things inserted there; it just makes me wildly uncomfortable, and so knowing that as of tomorrow I will begin dilating, does not make me feel any better. I hope that after the next 48 hours I have a bit more peace and a bit more closure, but of course it's possible I have unrealistic expectations.
I don't know what to expect right now. I have no idea what emotions I'm going to go through over the next 48, 72, 96 hours, weeks, months, etc. And I have no idea what C will go through either; I just know that no matter what, we will be going through them together, comforting each other every step of he way, and that together, we will find a path forward for us, and hopefully for a family.
8 days later
Whenever I heard stories of a couple losing their baby, or child, I always wondered how the family coped. How did they find the energy, the strength, the fortitude to get up every.single.day and wash, rinse, repeat. How does a couple found a way to wake up every.single.day knowing that their lives are never, ever going to be the same. How they would be able to look at each other without getting lost in grief, remembering what they almost had, or what they could have had if only the stars had aligned differently.
But then, suddenly, it does happen to you. You're sitting there one day, grasping the hand of your partner, hoping with every ounce of energy, that you are going to hear good news. But it doesn't come. (In my case, the bad news just didn't stop coming, but that's for later in the story.) You find your grasp becoming firmer and firmer, until it suddenly goes limp, and your hand is hanging there. You feel like all of you is hanging there. That you're slowly, but perpetually falling and there's no bottom to this cliff; there's no valley; there's not even a hell. This perpetual drop (which also proves that gravity is much stronger than 9.8m/s^2) is in fact endless. You'll spend days, weeks, month, or some inordinate amount of time in this free fall. People tell you not to mark time by the loss. That when the leaves change you shouldn't say, "He would have been 'x" now." or, "We would have been preparing the nursery now. The crib would be arriving any day." because it's unhealthy. It's not part of moving on. And, at the end of the day, we need to move on. We need to find a way to function on a daily basis knowing that the future that we were led to expect, is no longer our future. That with the flip of a switch, that has changed.
I'm new to this free fall this time around, but in the grand scheme of things, I have lost before. I lost in February 2007 - it was the one time C and I forgot to use protection, and 2 weeks later I was staring at a positive line. We were engaged at the time, and we had no idea how we would proceed. Little did I know that we wouldn't even have to decide because I miscarried. Honestly, it could have even been a CP; the only evidence the doctor had of my pregnancy was the positive urine test. We never did a blood test as I wasn't sure how we were going to proceed with the pregnancy.
I miscarried again last July, but that was *sigh* by choice, and a choice that will now haunt me for the rest of my life. My therapist continuously tells me that karma doesn't work that way, and that I am now not being punished for my decision, but it's still difficult to keep my mind from going there. It wants to go there because it wants to place blame, it wants a reason, it wants answers for what happened this time around. I chose to terminate because I was taking class x medications at the time of conception, and even for a week or two after as I wasn't expecting to be pregnant. All of my doctors were in agreement with my decision to terminate.
My loss in January is documented earlier in this blog, and I don't want to rehash it here. Perhaps I will at a later point, but I want to be able to delve into the grief that my husband and I are feeling now as it's paramount on my mind, and is our current hell.
But then, suddenly, it does happen to you. You're sitting there one day, grasping the hand of your partner, hoping with every ounce of energy, that you are going to hear good news. But it doesn't come. (In my case, the bad news just didn't stop coming, but that's for later in the story.) You find your grasp becoming firmer and firmer, until it suddenly goes limp, and your hand is hanging there. You feel like all of you is hanging there. That you're slowly, but perpetually falling and there's no bottom to this cliff; there's no valley; there's not even a hell. This perpetual drop (which also proves that gravity is much stronger than 9.8m/s^2) is in fact endless. You'll spend days, weeks, month, or some inordinate amount of time in this free fall. People tell you not to mark time by the loss. That when the leaves change you shouldn't say, "He would have been 'x" now." or, "We would have been preparing the nursery now. The crib would be arriving any day." because it's unhealthy. It's not part of moving on. And, at the end of the day, we need to move on. We need to find a way to function on a daily basis knowing that the future that we were led to expect, is no longer our future. That with the flip of a switch, that has changed.
I'm new to this free fall this time around, but in the grand scheme of things, I have lost before. I lost in February 2007 - it was the one time C and I forgot to use protection, and 2 weeks later I was staring at a positive line. We were engaged at the time, and we had no idea how we would proceed. Little did I know that we wouldn't even have to decide because I miscarried. Honestly, it could have even been a CP; the only evidence the doctor had of my pregnancy was the positive urine test. We never did a blood test as I wasn't sure how we were going to proceed with the pregnancy.
I miscarried again last July, but that was *sigh* by choice, and a choice that will now haunt me for the rest of my life. My therapist continuously tells me that karma doesn't work that way, and that I am now not being punished for my decision, but it's still difficult to keep my mind from going there. It wants to go there because it wants to place blame, it wants a reason, it wants answers for what happened this time around. I chose to terminate because I was taking class x medications at the time of conception, and even for a week or two after as I wasn't expecting to be pregnant. All of my doctors were in agreement with my decision to terminate.
My loss in January is documented earlier in this blog, and I don't want to rehash it here. Perhaps I will at a later point, but I want to be able to delve into the grief that my husband and I are feeling now as it's paramount on my mind, and is our current hell.
Initial reaction 24 hours post amnio
So, the 24 hours results are back....
If Columbia confirms Dandy-Walker we will *sigh* be terminating next Thursday or Friday. I don't advise researching Dandy-Walker; it's terrible. It's estimated prevalence is 1:~30,000 live births, and if it is completely random and LO is genetically normal, I truly hope that lightening doesn't strike twice. We will be doing exome sequencing of the fetus to add to the total amount of genetic information that is available for DW, and to see if we can pinpoint a genetic cause. Hopefully one day that information will help other parents. After all we have been through between previous pregnancies and this one, we are strongly considering IVF with genetic screening next time around. My peri feels that it's a very realistic plan that she endorses, and will work with setting me up with a top RE.
It will obviously take us a long time to heal from this, and I think my DH is having a much more difficult time coming to terms with it. What hurts the most is that there is no way to heal this pain. There is no way to fix it. There is literally no way to put the pieces of hope and dreams back together. There's nothing to stop the pain, and there is nothing that will make future pregnancies any easier. They already feel tainted. I feel like we lost our innocence through all the miscarriages, and now, with this pregnancy, I'm left with anger. I'm mourning a life that will never truly come to be, yet was already full of so much love. I'm mourning DH and I's sense of innocence, our faith that things will be okay. In the end we will come to terms with this and accept the fate, but it will never, ever be okay.
Once this is over DH and I are going to take a long trip to Italy and do our best to heal together. I will drink copious amounts of espresso, red wine and questionable cheeses. We are likely going to spend Christmas abroad because it's going to be too difficult to be here on my EDD and plan to move (though we will stay in our current area) because it's time for a change of scenery. I'm going to have olive trees planted in our parents backyards, and hope that they grow big and strong. We will find peace, even though it will be at the end of a very long road.
4 years ago I lost my best friend to cystic fibrosis. if there is a heaven, I hope she finds my little man and takes him under her wing.
Appointments at Columbia are Friday at 8am - ultrasound, fetal echo and genetic counseling. The genetic counseling is really for DH as he still needs to be karyotyped, mine was done in January and is normal.1. Chromosomally male - scrotum may not have dropped or differentiated itself at this point.
2. Negative for trisomy 13, 18 and 21 - full karyotype will be in by next Tuesday
3. Amniotic AFP level should be in on Thursday, but other information will be trickling in daily.
If Columbia confirms Dandy-Walker we will *sigh* be terminating next Thursday or Friday. I don't advise researching Dandy-Walker; it's terrible. It's estimated prevalence is 1:~30,000 live births, and if it is completely random and LO is genetically normal, I truly hope that lightening doesn't strike twice. We will be doing exome sequencing of the fetus to add to the total amount of genetic information that is available for DW, and to see if we can pinpoint a genetic cause. Hopefully one day that information will help other parents. After all we have been through between previous pregnancies and this one, we are strongly considering IVF with genetic screening next time around. My peri feels that it's a very realistic plan that she endorses, and will work with setting me up with a top RE.
It will obviously take us a long time to heal from this, and I think my DH is having a much more difficult time coming to terms with it. What hurts the most is that there is no way to heal this pain. There is no way to fix it. There is literally no way to put the pieces of hope and dreams back together. There's nothing to stop the pain, and there is nothing that will make future pregnancies any easier. They already feel tainted. I feel like we lost our innocence through all the miscarriages, and now, with this pregnancy, I'm left with anger. I'm mourning a life that will never truly come to be, yet was already full of so much love. I'm mourning DH and I's sense of innocence, our faith that things will be okay. In the end we will come to terms with this and accept the fate, but it will never, ever be okay.
Once this is over DH and I are going to take a long trip to Italy and do our best to heal together. I will drink copious amounts of espresso, red wine and questionable cheeses. We are likely going to spend Christmas abroad because it's going to be too difficult to be here on my EDD and plan to move (though we will stay in our current area) because it's time for a change of scenery. I'm going to have olive trees planted in our parents backyards, and hope that they grow big and strong. We will find peace, even though it will be at the end of a very long road.
4 years ago I lost my best friend to cystic fibrosis. if there is a heaven, I hope she finds my little man and takes him under her wing.
Recent linear pregnancy history
Pre-trying to conceive genetic testing: negative counsyl tests
12/1/12: Started trying to conceive
12/20/12: Positive pregnancy test
1/2/13: Hemorrhage landed me in the ER; told I was miscarrying
1/21/13: Ultrasound shows I didn't miscarriage when I was originally told it occurred; the sac continued to grow for a week or 2.
1/23/13: Miscarriage completed itself
Genetic testing: Normal karyotype
March 2013 - given the okay to start trying to conceive again
4/10/13 - positive pregnancy test
Saw the heartbeat at 6w1d
Normal ultrasound at 8w1d for brown spotting
"Normal" ultrasound at 11w for a bleed the night before - dx with subchorionic hematomas. noted that fetus was measuring a bit small, but was told it was normal.
12w1d - normal NT scan, fetus still measuring a bit small, told not to worry
13w1d - early anatomy scan at perinatologist - measuring a week behind, told not to worry too much. MaterniT21 was negative for trisomies and indicated a XY fetus.
18w1d - anatomy scan showed limbs measuring 2-3 weeks behind, head and abdomen still a week behind, dandy-walker malformation and other issues indicating there could be an underlying syndrome. Amnio was dome
18w3d - Consultation at three specialists at Columbia-NY Presb - confirmed Dandy-Walker variant, small hole in the heart and other various issues.
Currently awaiting husband's karyotype (normal), complete fetal karyotype and microarray.
We've had unprotected sex during 4 fertile windows, have gotten 4 positive pregnancy tests, yet have no children. Did you know it's possible to bat .000 while batting 1.000?
12/1/12: Started trying to conceive
12/20/12: Positive pregnancy test
1/2/13: Hemorrhage landed me in the ER; told I was miscarrying
1/21/13: Ultrasound shows I didn't miscarriage when I was originally told it occurred; the sac continued to grow for a week or 2.
1/23/13: Miscarriage completed itself
Genetic testing: Normal karyotype
March 2013 - given the okay to start trying to conceive again
4/10/13 - positive pregnancy test
Saw the heartbeat at 6w1d
Normal ultrasound at 8w1d for brown spotting
"Normal" ultrasound at 11w for a bleed the night before - dx with subchorionic hematomas. noted that fetus was measuring a bit small, but was told it was normal.
12w1d - normal NT scan, fetus still measuring a bit small, told not to worry
13w1d - early anatomy scan at perinatologist - measuring a week behind, told not to worry too much. MaterniT21 was negative for trisomies and indicated a XY fetus.
18w1d - anatomy scan showed limbs measuring 2-3 weeks behind, head and abdomen still a week behind, dandy-walker malformation and other issues indicating there could be an underlying syndrome. Amnio was dome
18w3d - Consultation at three specialists at Columbia-NY Presb - confirmed Dandy-Walker variant, small hole in the heart and other various issues.
Currently awaiting husband's karyotype (normal), complete fetal karyotype and microarray.
We've had unprotected sex during 4 fertile windows, have gotten 4 positive pregnancy tests, yet have no children. Did you know it's possible to bat .000 while batting 1.000?
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