It’s taken me a full year to muster the energy and courage to pen this reflection. I told myself I wouldn’t write about this until I was healed, and deep down I knew I wouldn’t be healed until I had a healthy baby of my own. Now that I am fortunate enough to say that I have a healthy baby of my own, I know that being “fully healed” is an illusion after loss. Though my hope and gratitude have been restored by my successful pregnancy and birth, the anxiety and fear that permeated my pregnancy and that will undoubtedly seep into my next pregnancy, god willing, are the wounds of loss that lay undressed in the wreckage of my heart.

I’ve never known a single thing with any certainty in my entire life with the exception of one thing: I have always wanted to be a mother. This was influenced by both nature and nurture.  I am naturally maternal and many of my other life choices have reflected this quality such as my career as an educator.  But I was also heavily influenced by the example of my mother who always made motherhood seem like the most fulfilling, joyful (and maddening) role one could ever have. Seeing how excited my mom would get for our triumphs and successes, how she could feel our pain when we were hurting, or how she advocated for us so fiercely if our opportunities or experiences were ever slightly cheapened or diminished, made motherhood seem passionately purposeful, and that’s what I have always sought, a life of passionate purpose. I have ZERO judgement for any women who choose not to be mothers.  Hell, sometimes I wish it wasn’t my truth that all I’ve ever wanted was to be a mother, because it sure isn’t easy.  But this has always been my truth, and so when Alex and I experienced our first miscarriage, I felt broken and despondent. 

For some reason I always knew I was going to have trouble having a child.  Maybe it was due to my family history as both my paternal grandmother, who I seem to take after quite a bit, as well as my mother, had troubles at first, though they went on to have healthy children. However, when I got pregnant after our first attempt, I thought maybe that plaguing fear was really my trusty old friend anxiety masquerading as instinct. I tried to not let myself get too excited after taking that first pregnancy test, but any woman seeking to become pregnant can probably tell you that once you see that positive result, it’s nearly impossible to keep yourself from dreaming.  I immediately dreamed of holding my precious baby, and thought about whether it would be a boy or a girl as well as the qualities I would wish for in him or her, and imagined Alex as a loving and doting father.  I wanted to shout my news from the rooftops but restrained myself to sharing with my immediate family and my best friends.  I scheduled my first doctor’s appointment which was a call that made me feel prematurely in completely unknown territory. Time crawled until that first appointment.  I was already a superstitious person but it felt like my superstitions took on an obsessive compulsive nature that was both distracting and unhealthy as I ticked off the days leading up to this appointment.  The day finally arrived and I’ll never forget the crushing heartache I felt when the doctor’s tone of voice shifted from congratulatory to tired sympathy. Always an optimist, I asked if it was possible we might hear a heartbeat after waiting the suggested two weeks, maybe I wasn’t as far along as we thought. “I’d be surprised if we did,” she said evenly. Alex gave me the kind of look a mother gives their child who had just taken a fall, his eyes were both trying desperately to convey a sense of calm but they were also searching my face to see how I was going to react. Tears welled and poured out of my eyes uncontrollably.  The doctor handed me a tissue box and left the room so I could get myself together. Alex wrapped me in an embrace and, always a realist, tried his hardest to communicate cautious optimism.  

The next two weeks were a slog of agony, anxiety, obsession, and sadness.  I Googled, I posted on pregnancy forums, I clawed at the internet, desperate to unearth a story similar to mine that ended in a healthy pregnancy.  I found some because, afterall, isn’t that one of the beauties of the internet?  You can always find someone or something to confirm or encourage something you want to believe. I felt like I was wearing a mask, especially at work.  I hadn’t told anyone at work that I was pregnant.  My boss and closest co-worker, both people I consider my very close friends, knew something was off with me. I wasn’t ready to share with them because I was stuck idling in this holding period, waiting to see if miraculously my baby would revive, but knowing most likely it wouldn’t.  There is something indescribably disappointing about housing something dead, something failed, in your own body. My job requires a lot of dispensing of encouragement and positivity, and though I was able to muster this, it was an exhausting charade.  We had social obligations within these two weeks, one being an extravagant charity event, something I typically look forward to every year. I was instructed to behave as if I was still pregnant during these two weeks, so attending this glamorous event and restraining myself from indulging in the overflowing displays of oysters, sushi, and champagne felt like salt in my wound. I couldn’t numb my sadness which in hindsight is probably a good thing, but the clarity of sobriety magnified the darkness of my reality.  

Ultimately the two weeks passed and Alex and I returned to that dreaded office, a physical place that still nauseates me when I visualize it. I knew immediately by the doctor’s face and silence as the glow of the ultrasound monitor illuminated her still face. I then had to make a decision as to how I wanted to remove my miscarriage: a procedure, pharmaceutical, or naturally.  My HcG levels were still through the roof, which explained why I was still experiencing symptoms such as morning sickness. My body was desperately clinging to this baby, and therefore the doctor felt if I chose the natural course I could be looking at weeks, maybe months.  Alex helped me to decide and we felt if I could avoid a surgical procedure that I ought to, so I went with the pharmaceutical route.  

I ended up telling my boss and closest co-worker since I knew I would likely need some days off from work. They were wonderfully supportive and gentle with me. I know it’s selfish, but I was so sad and so uninterested in wearing the mask that I wished the whole world would be put on pause so I could guiltlessly retreat into my own sadness. All I wanted to do was curl up in bed and watch The Golden Girls, a show I’ve always oddly taken such comfort in. I kept longing for something like the scene in Disney’s Sleeping Beauty where the three fairies put the entire kingdom to sleep while Aurora is under the spell so her Prince can conquer Maleficent. If my kingdom could just take a solid 3 day nap, surely I could mourn my loss and get on my way to moving on. Then I decided the solution must be a blizzard of epic proportions! A dazzling and deafening winter wonderland to blanket my county, nothing devastating or dangerous, just something to snuff the hamster wheel for a few days so I could pass my loss both physically and emotionally without feeling like I was an absentee to my life and responsibilities. I checked the weather forecast feverishly. 

I took off of work the day I decided to take the pill, which by the way, is not administered orally… this was very strange and uncomfortable. I laid down towels on my bed and turned on the movie Splash.  Tom Hanks movies also bring me immense comfort. I administered the medication and then hauled myself into bed and waited… waited for my loss to exit my body and to take my grief with it on its way out. After about an hour I had severe cramping and nausea but nothing else was happening.  I waited and waited.  After about 6 hours I became angry.  I wanted to be done with this.  I was no longer interested in hosting my loss.  I started blaming the doctor for encouraging me to take the pharmaceutical route, even though I knew it was really my own choosing.  After being given the run-around by my practice’s front-of-the-house, I finally got in touch with my doctor who assured me the pill worked for most women but every woman was different.  She suggested trying another dosage.  For some dumb reason I agreed to this.  I took off another day of work and tried again only to experience the same result.  I’ve never felt like such a failure.  I was angry with my body at this point.  I called my doctor again and aggressively requested to schedule the surgical procedure.  We scheduled my procedure for March 10th, which was about a week away. I then trudged through the next few days with impending dread and a hollow engagement with my daily routine.

I remember that I woke from the procedure in a dreamlike state, feeling the warmest and fuzziest sensation I had felt in months.  The anestesia was definitely still in my system and I was clinging to that effervescent high.  The recovery was really not bad at all. I know it is a very common procedure.  My pain wasn’t physical, it was emotional.  Again, I longed for that highly unlikely March blizzard to shut down the buzz of everyday life so I could have a little more time to lick my wounds and regroup mentally. Well, in a way, that blizzard did happen, but it was not a harmless, sparkling wonderland, it was a harrowing global pandemic called COVID-19.  

On March 13th, 3 days after my procedure, schools in VA closed for the unforeseeable future. As narcissistic and delusional as it is, I immediately felt pangs of guilt for my secret blizzard wish. Being incredibly privileged and fortunate, the pandemic brought for me a number of silver linings. By no means am I happy the pandemic happened, but always an optimist, it offered me the gift of time I needed to retreat and reflect, and to sit with my sadness. 

Once my body resumed its cycle, which took 3 months for me after my procedure, Alex and I started trying again. I had two other miscarriages. One was a chemical miscarriage, meaning it was super early and the only reason I knew it occurred was because I was obsessively taking pregnancy tests well before I should have been. The second was a natural miscarriage that was pretty painful physically. Shockingly to me, this one wasn’t as painful emotionally.  I think this was the case because I had already endured this experience and learned how to somewhat manage my sadness.  I have a matchless support system which I have found to be absolutely paramount to mending, recovering, and restoring. My family, especially my mother, and my friends checked on me continuously and kept me distracted with positive, goofy, socially distant diversions. They made me feel worthy of love during a time when I’m not so sure I loved myself. I am eternally indebted to my support system and hope to return their loving kindness to them in both times of sadness and joy.  After this third miscarriage I found myself feeling both resolute and helpless. I sought answers through both science and stars.  I had Alex get blood tested to see if there was anything wrong with him, something I had already done a few years previous for myself, knowing I wanted to have all information available to me before attempting to start our family.  Simultaneously, I visited a psychic who provided an eerily accurate depiction of my character and told me she saw children in my future, be them biological or not.  This gave me both hope and fear.  

Finally, after too many snafus with my OBGYN practice and feeling like I was having trouble accessing my doctor, I decided to switch practices and this was one of the most empowering things I did for myself during my pregnancy journey.  One of my closest friends, who actually became one of my closest friends due to our shared experiences with pregnancy loss, highly recommended her practice.  The minute I met my new doctor during our consultation, I immediately felt a connection and as if she already was making me feel a little more in control of my fate than my previous practice had ever shallowly attempted. I know control is a complete illusion in general and especially with regard to reproduction, but my new doctor laid out for me several actions I could take to improve my chances and to rule out anything that might be causing the losses.  

Being the good student I am, I got to work on all of her suggestions. I also implemented some changes of my own that I felt would benefit my mental health such as avoiding testing early, practicing yoga daily, and adopting several positive affirmations I would chant to myself whenever my negative thinking would encroach.  I waited at least two weeks after my late period to test and wouldn’t have done so had it not been for the unmistakable nausea I was feeling for three days in a row.  Additionally, and this is the honest truth, I had a vivid dream of a little girl smiling and smiling at me.  She had short brown hair and sparkly eyes that crinkled and gleamed when she smiled.  Her whole face smiled.  She wore a purple turtleneck shirt.  That was it.  That was all there was to this dream and yet I knew in an instant, this was my daughter. It gives me a lump in my throat recalling this now. I don’t even know what I believe spiritually, but this was as if there was a glitch in the system.  My subconscious had somehow traversed the planes of reality, dreamspace, and the afterlife /beforelife to reveal to me my daughter.  Still suffering the trauma of loss, I woke with both hope and fear.  I knew this was her, but would I ever meet her in this lifetime? Both the nausea and this vivid dream, or vision really, propelled me to shakily take out a pregnancy test that following morning. I remember my heart racing as I waited for that test, just as it had done with all the previous tests.  As my palms grew sweaty, I created a mental plan for myself if the test would be negative.  Something in me knew this was different though. The picture of that little girl’s face danced through my memory as I waited.  Her smile that seemed to be a smile just for me told me that it would be okay.  I took a deep breath and looked down to see two deep red lines.  My heart raced even faster.  I ran and got a second pregnancy test, the kind that says “pregnant” or “not pregnant,” a test I had avoided due to its brutal and humbling curtness. “Pregnant” flashed on that little screen and I ran into bed where Alex was still sleeping to hold up my urine covered prizes with shaky elation.  Alex gave me a big hug, but understandably so, clung to cautious optimism.  

My doctor wanted to see me early due to my history, so at 6 weeks along and insanely nauseous, I went in for my first ultrasound since my first loss.  The pandemic was still in full swing so I had to go alone and masked.  I couldn’t even look at the ultrasound monitor. I told my doctor to tell me to look only if it was good news.  I already was trying to hold back vomit due to my 24/7 morning sickness and now that was compounded by nervous nausea.  My doctor, whose calming bedside manner is unrivaled, said, “Hannah, I want you to see something,” and as she pointed to a steady flicker on the screen she flipped on a switch and I heard that, “thump, thump, thump, thump.” There is no other word to describe that sound besides miraculous.  I wept uncontrollably.  

I then went on to enjoy a beautifully healthy pregnancy with zero complications. I did have HG (hyperemesis gravardia), which is morning sickness times a million, but luckily for me it only persisted until my 16th week. I loved being pregnant. I’m not sure if that was because I was so exponentially grateful to have a healthy one after losses, or because I was able to work from home in my stretchy pants as my belly burgeoned, or because my husband was also working from home and we got to eat lunch together and take late afternoon walks, or because I was so miserably ill for the first 16 weeks that once I started feeling human again it gave me a new lease on life. I probably won’t know the exact recipe for my pregnancy bliss until I’m pregnant again, but this I know for sure, I loved feeling life growing inside me. I’ve never felt so powerful. Sure enough, my dream vision was confirmed, we found out at 13 weeks that we were having a girl. To make matters even spookier, I got myself a pregnancy psychic reading when I was 8 weeks and she predicted I’d have a girl, born on May 26th (past my due date), and that she’d be independent, creative, and bossy. I gave birth at 11:42 PM on May 26th to a thriving, healthy girl who has already shown us in several non-verbal ways that she is the one in charge! She is the absolute love of my life, my soul mate. She smiles with her entire face, her squinty eyes sparkling just for me.

My story had a syrupy sweet happy ending, one that I express gratitude for every single day… even on the very hard days, and trust and believe there are many of those in the newborn stage! As I write this my heart aches knowing some women do not have as happy an ending as I have had, and there are plenty out there still seeking to be fulfilled as childless mothers.  These women will always be in my prayers and my wishes.  It’s a battle that is so often privately waged. And besides needing the catharsis, I’ve been motivated to share my story to raise awareness about miscarriage and pregnancy loss and to destigmatize it as something that needs to be kept secret.  Some women would prefer to keep it private and that is perfectly respectable in my eyes as well, we grieve how we choose to grieve.  For me, I needed support and I found my strength in my own vulnerability.  

Through my loss I gained invaluable lessons as well as coping strategies that will benefit me for the rest of my life.  I think one of the most valuable lessons I learned was how to be a better emotional support to someone grieving.  I learned this through the non-examples and examples set for me amongst my support group during my time of emotional need.  There are several things that people said to me that were not helpful to my grieving process. I am going to outline them below.  The purpose of this is NOT to chastise.  I know that anyone who tried to support me was operating the best way they knew how and that their intentions were positive and pure.  The purpose is for me to reflect on why some things are not helpful and to express how I learned to be a better emotional supporter because of these non-examples:

• “Everything happens for a reason:” though sometimes I think maybe I am a fatalist, it’s a cheap attempt to explain the chaos and it’s really not kind to leave someone hurting with the question of, “well what was the reason?” I know if you’re religious you likely believe God has a plan so this statement might slip off your tongue with personal conviction.  Not everyone shares those same beliefs and when in the throes of grief, hearing this statement made me wonder what I had done to deserve this purposeful hardship. I learned to never say this to anyone, even if I believe it. 
• “____ (fill in the blank with another woman’s name) had a way worse experience than you, she was _____ (fill in the blank with details regarding a different miscarriage or pregnancy loss story):” comparison is the thief of joy and the guillotine of courageous vulnerability. Only a couple of people shared this sentiment with me.  Loss isn’t a competition. Loss is loss and your grief is your grief. No one should ever make you feel weak or guilty for grieving. 
• “Miscarriage is so common:” though this is unfortunately true, it’s not very comforting to someone going through one. Being reminded that I was just a number in a statistic made me feel stupid for being sad.  

There were probably other unhelpful comments that were meant to comfort, but those are the ones that stand out to me.  I learned that people say these things because they don’t know what else to say and they want you to quickly stop being sad because that is uncomfortable for them.  I was guilty of this before learning this truth.  I have vowed to get comfortable with being uncomfortable, especially when providing emotional support to those I care about and love.  There were also exemplary things said to me by my deeply loving support system:

• “I am so sorry you’re going through this:” whenever I heard this it validated my feelings and always felt genuine.  
• “I love you” or “You are loved:” so simple and so powerful when someone is hurting. 

In addition to learning how to be a better emotional support, I learned to let go of some things that weren’t serving me.  Notably, I let go of superstition because I learned it’s my anxiety dressed up in mystical regalia.  Let me share a brief anecdote to illustrate how I learned to let go of superstition: Alex wasn’t allowed to go with me to any of my appointments during my healthy pregnancy with the exception of my 20 week anatomy scan.  The hospital where I was having my scan done called me at 7 PM, which felt odd, and said they were making an exception for mothers-to-be for this scan since it was such an important scan they wanted the mothers to have one support person with them.  The only other appointments Alex had been present for were appointments with very unhappy results.  My formerly superstitious self decided that Alex was bad luck and maybe he shouldn’t come with me to the anatomy scan.  Typing this out, I cannot believe how ridiculous this sounds, and even more ridiculous than it sounds was that I truly convinced myself at the time that bringing my own husband, the father of the baby growing inside me to the most important scan of the pregnancy could somehow be potentially perilous to our baby’s health.  I almost didn’t let him come.  I reached out to one of my closest friends, the same one who shared my experiences of pregnancy loss, and she quite bluntly told me that superstition is a manifestation of anxiety and that I’d be robbing my husband of a deeply momentous opportunity, an opportunity that could help him feel more connected to our unborn child. I listened.  Alex came with me to the scan and guess what?  His presence didn’t thwart the success of our pregnancy.  It ended up being the most joyful appointment I had of the entire pregnancy.  Alex was so adorable asking the technician to zoom in on certain parts and asking countless questions about the baby’s anatomy and how the machine worked.  He said it finally felt real to him after that.  I almost kept this from him because of superstition.  Never again. 

I also learned to let go of expectations, as best I can. My birth story was nothing as I expected (more on that in a future post) and I certainly did not expect to have postpartum depression, which I did about 6 weeks after giving birth (also more on that in a future post). My pregnancy journey and motherhood thus far have both taught me to take life day by day, and when it comes to a newborn and infant, hour by hour. A comedian I love, Casey Wilson, once wrote that a quote she latched onto during early motherhood was, “this is the moment I find myself in.” I too have found that quote to be a comforting reminder that I may be the main character of my own story, but the plot line is only influenced by me, not written in ink. Everyday of motherhood so far has been one full of madness and magic. It’s an uncomfortable feeling for me to be reminded so frequently that I’m not really in control. But I wouldn’t have it any other way because in place of the illusion of control, I’ve been gifted passionate purpose. And I hope to show my daughter that she gives me that passionate purpose everyday for the rest of my life.