A Story of Early Pregnancy Loss & Hope
My husband and my journey towards becoming parents started in March of 2020, right alongside the start of the pandemic. We'd planned for a long time that we'd start trying in March, timing it so that we wouldn't run the risk of missing my sister's wedding (ironic in retrospect, on multiple levels). We were thrilled when, after our third month of trying, I saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test. And then, two and a half weeks later on my 32nd birthday, we were devastated when I went to the bathroom and found blood. The after-hours OB assured me that bleeding in early pregnancy is common and didn't necessarily mean a miscarriage, but I knew in my heart that the baby was gone. The next day, it was confirmed via ultrasound in a cold, stark hospital room by an emotionless resident who told me while looking past me that it was an "early failed pregnancy." As though it were my fault. As though it didn't matter.
The weeks and months that followed are a blur. I grieved the loss of this baby harder than I imagined I would, and in different ways than my husband. I had talked to this poppyseed-sized baby in my belly, imagined their future, been giddy with un-jaded, naive excitement - and then in an instant, they were gone. We were so ready to become parents, so we started trying again almost immediately, and month after month I fell into a deeper despair that it wasn't happening.
At some point - after 6 months, 8 months, I don't remember now - I knew in my gut something was wrong. Rule follower that I am, I pushed down the worry and waited until we'd hit nearly a year of trying before asking my OB for a referral to an RE. From there came the many tests, all of which yielded the frustrating diagnosis of unexplained infertility but the optimistic recommendation from our RE that we were great candidates for IUIs. I was still in denial about our infertility diagnosis and terrified of IVF, so we agreed to the IUI plan. Seemingly everyone around me was getting pregnant by surprise, on their first month of trying, without tracking their ovulation, and I was lonely, scared, and heartbroken. It was at this point in the journey that I decided to sign up for an Infertility Unfiltered group, and while it may sound dramatic, it saved me. Suddenly having the support and love of this fierce group of women who understood everything I was feeling made all the difference in the world, and fueled me through what was to be another year of heartbreak and challenge.
One canceled and three failed IUIs later, it was time to move on - to a different RE, and to IVF. Although on paper we looked like the ideal IVF candidates, the reality turned out to be very different. Anyone who's gone through IVF knows the brutal reality of the numbers game, but it was worse for us than anyone could have predicted. My first retrieval yielded 22 eggs, and we were elated - until the fertilization report, where we found out that only 2 had fertilized. In the end, we had no genetically normal embryos. The following 2 retrievals went similarly, although somehow we managed to make 3 PGT normal embryos from the 50+ eggs retrieved from my body. A far cry from what we'd hoped for, and so much more than we expected after the first retrieval. I somehow simultaneously felt like the unluckiest and luckiest person in the world.
Almost exactly 2 years after we started trying, we transferred our first embryo, and 9 days later, we found out it had stuck. We were so happy, so relieved, and so guarded. Terrified to jinx it by being excited, remembering how easily it could be gone in an instant. This time, I wasn't talking to the poppyseed sized baby; I just couldn't bring myself to. At 12 weeks, I went to the bathroom and found blood, and it was that night that I talked to the baby for the first time, repeating over and over, "please hang on, please hang on" as I drove to the hospital in tears for an ultrasound, convinced that this was the end of this pregnancy, too. Amazingly, it wasn't.
Today, I'm 36 weeks pregnant with our rainbow baby. I'm grateful beyond belief, and some days I still don't believe it's real. Pregnancy after loss and infertility has been a rollercoaster, to say the least. A wild mix of joy, gratitude, disbelief, fear, uncertainty, and hope that this baby will be born healthy. It's been beautiful and painful and messy. And I know that in spite of the pain of this journey, we're among the lucky ones.
In my wildest dreams, I never would have imagined this would be our story. But it's ours, and as strange as it sounds as I nervously wait to hold this longed-for baby in my arms, I wouldn't change a thing.