No Longer Pregnant

I wanted to preface this entry by warning you that it will be long, and sometimes very detailed. This is more for me than for you, dear reader, so please don’t feel bad if you can’t get through it all. I have read every message since my last entry, and I am so very appreciative of all the kind words and supportive comments. 

I spent the last week begging my baby to go before our appointment to terminate. I explained that it wasn’t her time, but that she could and should come back to me as soon as possible. I told her over and over that I loved her, but that this body wasn’t meant to be hers. I promised that we would try hard to make a new one for her, one that would be more whole. I told her that if she left now, it would be a wonderful gift to mommy, so that I could stay home with my family. I don’t know if I even believe that she could understand that, or even if there was a “her” at all. But I was desperate. Desperate for this to be over. Desperate not to have to get on a plane and travel far from my home to say goodbye to my baby in a strange place.

Not only did I beg my baby to let go, I pleaded with gods I didn’t believe in, and with relatives who had passed long ago, to help me convince her to leave. And, you know, maybe she did leave. Maybe she left behind a shell that still had a strong heartbeat. I suppose that’s possible. I don’t know how this whole life/soul/spirit thing works.

But, of course, what I really wanted was for her heart to stop beating. Because if it did, termination wouldn’t be necessary, and I wouldn’t have to leave home for medical care. That didn’t happen.

Wednesday, September 21

I spent the morning of our flight unpacking my regular clothes and packing away most of my maternity stuff. I kept a few pieces out in case my body didn’t get the message right away. I fought back tears and hoped with all my might that I would soon need those maternity clothes again.

As the plane took off, I couldn’t help but notice that the trees were starting to show their fall colors. Fall is my favorite season. The weather is finally cooler, and soon it would be my birthday, and my husband’s birthday, then our anniversary, and the start of the holiday season. As I watched the ground get farther away, I felt my love for the season diminish. Fall will always hold a deep sadness from this point on. Fall was my favorite season.

Upon arrival in the Big City, our plane was met with some undesirable weather. We ended up in a holding pattern for a while, and the pilot warned us that if we were there too long, we would need to be diverted to another city. Great, I thought. The icing on the shittiest cake ever. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. Though we did experience some awful turbulence before landing.

fullsizerender

The storm that almost diverted us 300 miles from our destination.

Thursday, September 22

Morning came slowly, after a night of tossing and turning in an awful hotel bed. I managed to eat a little, but my stomach wouldn’t allow much. All I can think about is how today might go.

So much fucking waiting. I was warned about the time it would take, but that didn’t make it easier. Too much time to think. And cry. I tried to stay distracted by focusing on the conversations my husband and best friend were having, but it was all so trite and annoying.

When it was finally my time, I was taken to an exam room for vitals, etc., much like any doctor appointment. More waiting, then another ultrasound. Pure torture. I chose not to look, but I cried anyway. The tech was really nice, and told me I had an anterior placenta, which explains why I hadn’t felt much movement, even though she was always moving like crazy on the ultrasound.

More waiting, more information about what was to come, and finally it was time for the dilation rods, or laminaria. So far, everyone has been very courteous, but the support person assigned to me and the doctor who placed the rods were incredibly friendly and compassionate. The insertion was almost completely painless. In fact, I hadn’t even realized that she had started until she was nearly done. Right at the end, as the last rod was placed, I began to experience some pain. More waiting in the recovery area, then I was discharged for the day.

Back at the crappy hotel, the pain was almost unbearable, so I took the pain killers they gave me and tried to relax. Eventually, the drugs kicked in, and I was able to get some rest.

Friday, September 23 

19 weeks 6 days

I cried in the shower. This is not how this was supposed to go. At 20 weeks, I should be posting pictures on Facebook of my “half baked” baby bump, not getting ready to “terminate for medical reasons.” I can’t eat or drink, but, for the first time in my life, that’s just fine with me. We drove in silence to the clinic, arriving a half hour early. They called me back right on time. More consents, more vitals, and then I changed into a hospital gown. More waiting, then the IV, pain medication, and finally (but right on time) I’m in the surgical room. Everyone was kind and compassionate, telling me how sorry they were to meet me under these circumstances. The doctor asks me about our plans to try again, and gives me the same recommendation as the OB and MFM: at least 4 mg of folic acid, starting ASAP.

After I get comfortable in the stirrups with my ass hanging off the end of the bed, a cool breeze on my nether regions, they give me the fast-acting sedation. It’s glorious! The procedure took only a few minutes. It was mostly just uncomfortable, but as soon as I told them I was in pain, the doctor paused while the nurse gave me more pain medication. The nurse and doctor talked to me the whole time, asking me about my work and my daughter. I don’t remember much, but I am grateful for the distraction. It was over quickly, and I was wheeled back to recovery where I ate and drank and was discharged about an hour later.

Physically, I felt fine. I was expecting pain, but had none. I bled heavily the remainder of the day, but it was down to spotting by the time we arrived at the airport. Our flight was delayed by about 30 minutes, which isn’t bad at all, but feels like torture when all you want to do is be home and holding your child after losing your baby. It was about 10:30 pm by the time we walked through our front door, and I did indeed pull my little girl out of her bed to hold and rock her for a few minutes. I breathed in her scent, whispered how much I loved her, and told her I was sorry that she wouldn’t be a big sister just yet, but hopefully some day. I fell asleep, crying, but happy to be in my own bed.

Now

It’s hard to say at any given moment how I am doing. Now that the physical part is over, I feel like I can finally move ahead. I’ve returned to work, trying to get back into a normal routine, which will include regular therapy sessions for a while. I’m grateful to be surrounded by caring and supportive people in my “real” life and online. Friends and family are constantly checking on me, and sending lots of love and chocolate. I continue to feel good physically, and it’s my hope that my body will recover it’s “normal” cycle soon.

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18 thoughts on “No Longer Pregnant

  1. I am so sorry for the loss of your baby girl and for everything you’ve had to go through to bring the pregnancy to an end. I hope you can take the time to get the support you need and give yourself permission to openly grieve for the most awful of losses. I hope you do go on to have a healthy and happy pregnancy again soon. In the meantime sending lots of love.

  2. I am so incredibly sorry for everything you’ve gone through, in my experience terminating for medical reasons is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Sending my love and wishing you peace in the coming weeks.

  3. My darling, it was a sad privilege to read your words. I am so very sorry for the loss of your sweet girl. I am glad that you have a community that feels supportive. I don’t know how the life/soul/spirit thing works, but what you wrote makes sense to me. I think about you every day. ❤

  4. I’ve been in an emotional rough patch and decided I would save reading this post in detail for a day when I feel more resilient but wanted to pause and say my heart has been and is aching for you. I know it changes nothing but I am so. So. Sorry this is happening. Happened. Is.

  5. I’ve been thinking of you and am so sorry for all you’ve been through. Take care of yourself and your little girl, and let others care for and support you too. Hugs.

  6. Pingback: Coming to Terms – Spoiler Alert: It’s Not Happening Just Yet – Forever Infertile

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