This time we told just a few people at a
time. First, it was our Bible study friends, because we wanted ourselves and
that tiny baby covered in prayer. At Thanksgiving (6 weeks), we told our
immediate families. Then as I started showing (11 weeks), I started telling
more friends that I was seeing in person, then even more people who couldn’t
help but stare at my stomach and wonder (13 weeks).
At 14 weeks, you’re officially in the
second trimester, where the risk of miscarriage drops to about 1 percent. That
figure should make most people feel good and “safe” and OK with going public.
But since I had already had a miscarriage beyond that point, I didn’t feel
safe. Part of me wanted to tell all my friends, such as the ones who I’m more
than just Facebook friends with but don’t see on a regular basis in real life.
But another part of me felt like “if I wait, that’s one less person I’ll have
to tell bad news to, should it turn out that way.” After all, it is much easier
for both sides of the conversation when someone can say “I’m so sorry you went
through that” instead of “I’m so sorry you are going through this.”
For people who did know, and would ask
“How are you feeling?” every time we got together, the answer was really
complicated.
Up until 8 weeks, I felt really hopeful.
It was as if my brain was divided into two parts, the happy part that was all
“yay, babies!” and the “rational” side that was all “maybe a baby.” But the
happy side was winning.
Then at 8 weeks, I started to get more
nervous. I hadn’t been to the doctor yet, and it wasn’t that I was worried that
there wouldn’t be a heartbeat; it was more like I was worried that the
appointment would give me a false security, and then if I did lose the baby,
I’d be wrecked (as if I wouldn’t be wrecked in any circumstance that led to
losing another baby). I reached out to my prayer friends, who got me through
the day, and at night while lying in bed, unable to fall asleep from worry, I
would pray to God. I remember specifically one night in December feeling
extremely worked up (which is really unlike me, I am not a worrier by nature)
and I prayed: “Jesus, I need you now, if I'm going to get any sleep, please
give me your rest.” And it was answered prayer in a way that I have experienced
very few times in my life. Immediately the cycle of worried thoughts stopped,
replaced by Christmas songs, and I fell asleep within minutes. All night I
dreamed dreams of being a reporter and doing interviews with people who had
stories with crazy circumstances, but how God had worked it out for good. I had
three dreams in a row like that, but I forgot the details of each as soon as it
was over. (I usually have extremely boring dreams, so experiencing these was
quite remarkable, even though I couldn’t remember the specifics of the dream.)
We had the first doctor’s appointment at 8
½ weeks, and because of our ridiculous insurance policy, I’m not allowed to
see a doctor and an ultrasound technician on the same day. We only saw my
doctor that day, but she used the little handheld ultrasound unit (yay for
technology!) and verified, yes, there was a living baby in there, head, body,
heart, and little appendages. Five days later Josh and I went back for the real
ultrasound on the big machine, and the ultrasound technician easily found the
baby, measured him and confirmed my July 22 due date, but had a hard time
getting the baby to move. I kind of started freaking out, because it seemed
really important to the tech to get the baby to move and she kept poking my
uterus and then made me roll back and forth a bunch of times until we finally
got the baby to respond. We did see something really amazing on the ultrasound
though—I had a blood vessel right under the baby’s head, and my blood flow
pulsing through it was actually rocking the baby’s head up and down, as if he
was in a rocker. That was a slight consolation about why the baby was so hard
to wake up.
At 11 weeks, I went for a second doctor’s
appointment, this time with my mom because I couldn’t get an appointment that
would fit Josh’s schedule. This time the baby was easier to see on the little
handheld unit, with fully sprouted arms, legs, hands and feet. Again, the baby
was sleeping, but after a few minutes of the doctor moving the ultrasound wand
all around, the baby did wake up and wiggle a little. But the doctor said she
got a clear look at the neck and it looked good and she could see the nose
bones, which apparently is a really good sign developmentally at that stage. It
was just enough reassurance to get me through the next week and a half.
At our 13-week appointment (Pause: I have
an amazing doctor, who as you can see, was letting me come every two weeks
instead of every four weeks. She knew I needed the reassurance of seeing that
baby and she told me I could come back even on her lunch breaks if I was just
having a bad day, but I kept it to my biweekly appointments), Josh came with me
again and we saw the baby on the handheld unit, wiggling up a storm. He had
crossed, then uncrossed his feet, long legs (I wonder where those came from?)
and was rolling over, giving us all kinds of visuals. I left the appointment
feeling elated, and quickly texted everyone who was praying for me and my
nervousness the great news.
Part of me wanted to tell all my friends
at that point, but the part inside of me that’s still sad, still guarded, over-road
the excitement. After all, the last baby died somewhere between 14 and 17
weeks. Granted, the only time we saw an ultrasound of that baby was at the
8-week appointment, so we never knew anything was unhealthy with the child
until I was spotting and panicking in the doctor’s office. But then again, how
much could the doctor really tell this time by looking at the ultrasound on a
screen the size of my iPhone?
In mid-January, when I hit 14 weeks,
Josh’s work schedule for late February and early March started getting busy. I knew
I would be eligible for the anatomy scan ultrasound, where the technician
really checks the baby out, looks at all the visible organs and does in-depth
measurements, identifies the gender and gives a sort of “all clear,” at 19
weeks, which would be Feb. 26. While you usually need the doctor to order the
anatomy scan, I called my doctor’s secretary, explained my husband’s work
schedule limitations to her, and she let me make the anatomy scan ultrasound
appointment for Feb. 29. Leap Day! It felt like a good sign, like maybe we’d
have such good news we’d be “leaping” for joy. (I apologize for the pun.)
At 15 ½ weeks, Josh and I went back and
saw my doctor for a regular appointment. The office was running pretty late
that day, and the doctor only did the Doppler to listen for the heartbeat,
which she found immediately, and explained that the extra weird sounds we were
also hearing was the baby moving around. And she looked me in the eye and said
“I think this is a completely normal, healthy baby.” And it was like my soul
sighed with relief.
While I had entered the office wanting one
more appointment before the ultrasound—which would feel like an eternity at 3 ½
weeks away, I didn’t ask for it. It was time to let go of my pseudo control. An
ultrasound can’t save a baby, it can only give me 12 hours of reassurance (oh
me, of little faith). And then the worry was likely to come right back. I let
it go, then Josh and I went to Panera to buy a gift card for our awesome doctor
who had gone out of her way for us so many times already. (She also had
delivered Rye during an emergency C-section, and we had never officially
thanked her for that, so a Panera gift card didn’t really seem quite fitting
enough for a thank-you, but it was a gesture.)
The first week went by OK. The next week
got harder. I still couldn’t feel the baby, and the anniversary point for when
I had found out I had lost the last baby, at 17 weeks and 3 days, was coming
up. I asked my friends to cover me in prayer that day, which turned out to be a
snowstorm and Rye and I were stuck in the house. That did not help—no
distractions for me, and all my energy went into keeping Rye and I from going
crazy with more cabin fever. I’m not going to lie, it was a sucky day. I didn’t
feel God’s reassurance, or the baby moving, and I just had to continue to wait.
But just three days later, I did feel the
baby move. Determining those first kicks and moves from regular bodily
functions can be hard, but these sensations were clear—and clearly coming from
right underneath my C-section scar. I cried.
And the motions continued to pop up every
day, throughout the day, first thing in the morning and last thing before bed.
Thank you, Jesus! I thought the last week leading up to ultrasound day would be
the hardest, but it wasn’t. My schedule was so full that I had a visitor every
day but one (a day of much needed rest and sweatpants), and with my baby’s movements,
it was like I had a new friend keeping me company internally throughout the
day. While I think my natural face that I walk around with is a horrible,
sullen-looking expression (as evidenced by every single photo where I’m not
told to “smile”), I now really was smiling.
And three days before the ultrasound, I
texted two friends who know the depths of what I’ve been through a cheerful
“Been feeling the baby consistently for a week—overwhelmed with feelings of ‘this
is really happening!’” With tears in my eyes.
On Feb. 29, we headed down to my Owings
Mills doctor’s office and made great time, getting there at 10 on the dot. I
knew we were the first ultrasound of the day, and my heart was racing as we
waited to get back there. I hadn’t been able to eat breakfast, but had an apple
in the car so as not to pass out during my appointment (and to give that baby a
boost of energy too so we could see him move).
Still, the minutes ticked by. Despite
being the first appointment, we still didn’t get into the ultrasound room until
20 minutes after our scheduled time. The ultrasound tech was very
pleased, getting great shots of the baby’s spine, head, leg and heart rather
quickly. But when it came time for the gender reveal, baby would not cooperate.
He was moving, but in weird ways. We even saw him do ¾ of a somersault, and the
technician started chanting “do it, do it!” and all I could think was “don’t,
don’t, the cord!” Finally though she caught a flicker of the crotch that we
didn’t catch, and said “ready to find out?” and we said yes, and she showed us
the freeze frame of that tiny little penis. I smiled. Whereas with Rye I had
been 98% sure I was having a girl, this time around I was 95% sure it was a
boy. While we both wanted to know the gender, we had already learned that this
baby was looking healthy, and that was what mattered more than anything.
The ultrasound tech was now running pretty
behind schedule, so while she told us the baby was measuring 5 days ahead of
due date and probably weighed 12 ounces, we didn’t find out the percentiles or
anything like that. I figured the doctor would tell us that since we were
supposed to see her next, but this doctor (not the same one I had already seen
four times) had apparently cancelled all her appointments for that day and I
had to reschedule. Oh well, we had the news we wanted.
And so now I feel pretty reassured. We’ve
seen the baby, he’s big (oy vey), and he moves all the time. We both enjoy
chocolate and carbs. And ice cream. I think we’re going to get along just fine.
To everyone who learned about the
pregnancy via the blog, I hope you’re not offended. Just know that I am SO
HAPPY to share the good, good news with you now.