The Blog I Didn't Want to Write

When I was pregnant with Reagan, I was adamant that I would nurse, at least for the first six months of his life, preferably a year. Partly for health reasons, and partly because formula is so ridiculously expensive, it never occurred to me not to nurse. Plus, I wanted that bonding time with my son. I envisioned me gently caressing his sweet little face while he happily nursed, content in his Mommy's arms. I even remember telling my husband that of course Reagan would bond with me more in the beginning, since I would be nursing, which is why he should try to do other things with Reagan to balance it out.

Unfortunately, Reagan never got that memo. We spent two painful days in the hospital, with the 'lactation consultants' assuring me that my milk would eventually come in, and Reagan would naturally figure it out. They (wrongly) advised us to just give him enough formula so he wasn't starving, and that way he would want to nurse more when my milk came in because he would be so hungry. (The ludicrousness of that advice, and the fact that I actually followed it, still makes me shudder).

By day 6, when it still hadn't come in, I felt like a complete failure, as a mother, a woman and a human being. Ultimately, after one very expensive pump, multiple phone calls to various health professionals, and a visit with his pediatrician where I confessed through many tears that I felt like the worst mother ever, we realized I was never, ever going to make enough milk to feed my child. We stumbled through the first five months, using mostly formula and a little bit of my milk, until one day it dawned on me that I was making everyone in the house miserable, including myself, and I just gave up.

It took me several months to tell anyone about it, because I felt like I had already failed my first, most basic role. But as I started talking about it, it seemed everyone had either had the same problem, or knew someone who had the same problem with nursing as I did. Who knew I wasn't the only one?

Since then, I've talked about it -- a lot. Especially to pregnant and new moms. And I realized that by not talking about it, I had harmed both myself by keeping it inside, and had not offered a supportive ear to others who may have been struggling with the exact same thing.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. Sometimes I'm a slow learner.

Our family went through something else last year. Something I haven't wanted to talk about. Something I try to avoid talking about, let alone blog about. Something some of the people closest to me don't even know about. But it dawned on me a few weeks ago that if I can bring myself to talk about it, I may be able to help someone else going through the same thing.

So.

Here goes.

Deep breath.

We had two miscarriages last year.

Two.

Ok. That wasn't so hard.

I really can't take all the credit for suddenly being willing to share this dark, dark chapter. Two of my sweet friends, Jolina Petersheim and Amanda Sims, who also happen to be fantastic writers, wrote about their own experiences (find their blogs here and here), and reading their stories helped me heal. A lot. Yet, I held on to this shadowed corner of my heart, not wanting to reveal it. To anyone.

We found out in January of 2013 I was pregnant. It wasn't planned, but it wasn't unplanned either. We knew we wanted another child, so it felt like a welcome gift. We were in PA for a belated Christmas celebration, and I spent the day with my very, very best childhood friend, Twila Ramirez. We had breakfast and a spa day, and then stopped by the drugstore to get a test. I was so sure I was pregnant -- that ALWAYS sleepy feeling, getting a wave of nausea by certain foods, yet feeling hungry 24/7 -- that I also bought a card for my husband for the big reveal. I took the test as soon as I got to my sister's and my hunch was right. I was pregnant.

Truth be told, though, something didn't feel right from the beginning. I couldn't put my finger on why, but I just had this uneasiness the entire time. When I went for my ultrasound, I remember feeling this sense of dread walking into my OB's office. I was right. The baby wasn't big enough as she (I knew right away it was a girl) should have been. We made another appointment for the following week, but only a few days later, I miscarried.

I was devastated. Heartbroken. An emotional mess. But, not very surprised.

My OB encouraged me to try again. She said I was healthy, everything looked good, and there was no reason to believe I couldn't have a successful pregnancy.

Only a couple months later, we found out I was pregnant again. This time, I was excited. Elated. I felt great, other than that pesky nausea. I had to go in for a lot more tests and -- horror of horrors -- almost daily blood work.

With much fear and trepidation, I went for an ultrasound, and there it was. A beautiful, beating heartbeat. I wept tears of relief. Finally. The ultrasound tech said once there's a heartbeat, the chance of miscarriage drops to 5%, so we should be ok.

Whew.

One week later, I went for a follow-up ultrasound, this time with my doctor. Because she hadn't done the original one, she just wanted to see for herself, she said, although she added there was absolutely no reason to think there was anything wrong.

Except, there was.

There was no longer a heartbeat. I was between week 11 and 12, and there was no heartbeat.

For all the weeks I knew I was pregnant, I loved her (I also knew this one was a girl) with a fierceness that surprised even me. I was determined to do everything in my power to give her as comfortable a home as possible while in the womb. I felt more protective of this pregnancy than my other two. This child, I determined, would live.

The next few days and weeks are a blur. I had to have surgery, since I was so far along. My options were to have it the next day, or to wait a week, since my doctor was going out of town. I opted for the next day. I wanted it over with as quickly as possible.

I told so few people. We went to PA the week after my surgery, and I didn't talk about it. I felt ... embarrassed. Embarrassed that my body betrayed me, twice. Embarrassed that, like nursing, I couldn't do the one thing I was supposed to do.

Ultimately, after a few tests and one very, very expensive visit with a geneticist obstetrician, we learned that the miscarriage actually had nothing to do with me. At all. Since they had to do surgery, they tested the fetus for abnormalities, and learned that it (and most likely the baby in the first pregnancy), had a very, very rare disorder called unbalanced reciprocal translocation. It affects chromosomes 1 and 5, and makes carrying past week 12 impossible. And, I wasn't the carrier of it. My bloodwork came back clear, so that meant my sweet husband was the carrier. (He gave permission to share this part of the story).

It wasn't my fault. It most definitely wasn't his fault. It was just a teeny tiny mix-up in the DNA.

The same week I found out I was pregnant, not one, not two, but THREE of my friends found out they were pregnant. I'm not going to lie -- seeing them with their babies still pangs me sometimes. I still picture what our daughter would look like, I think about how old she would be by now, and I grieve as I pack up the tiny baby clothes that once held so much hope.

Right after we found out about the unbalanced reciprocal translocation, which gave us about a 50-50 chance of having a healthy pregnancy, someone innocently said, 'It's about time Reagan gets a brother or sister, isn't it?' I cringed, smiled, and said nothing. Until we announced our adoption, I stumbled over words when someone asked when we were going for Baby #2. One woman, who I barely knew, asked why we were waiting so long to give Reagan a sibling. I blurted out, 'I just had a miscarriage.' She replied, 'Well, you can always try again.'

Ok. Thanks for that.

But, as I've slowly shared my story with people, much like the whole nursing saga, someone inevitably reveals they dealt with the same thing. Or their sister/best friend/co-worker/niece just had one.

I don't have many words of wisdom or pearls of knowledge I've gained from the experience. But, much like I experienced with the passing of my mother, I have learned that time doesn't take the pain away, but it does make it shift. I imagine I'll always feel a bit of sadness when I think about the experience. I definitely am much more sensitive with women who are battling infertility or struggling with a healthy pregnancy, and I never, ever, ever ask when someone is planning on expanding their family. We don't know what the reasons are behind their family size, but there's a strong likelihood that there may be some hurt behind their lack of pregnancy.

Meanwhile, we are adopting. That doesn't take away the pain of the lost pregnancies, but it does give us something to look forward to. However, the adoption was in no way a decision because we couldn't stay pregnant. The adoption was decided months before my first miscarriage. But now that we're in the middle of the adoption, we have chosen not to get pregnant, as that would stall the adoption (per agency requirements).

For anyone who has had a miscarriage, or is battling infertility. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. And I'm sorry that people have unintentionally said insensitive things and made you feel bad for a situation that is not at all your fault. I'm sorry that your life isn't turning out the way you envisioned, and I'm sorry that your arms feel empty and your heart hurts.

And if you need someone to have a cup of coffee with ....