This was posted originally on April 11, 2019 on a different blog host.
This experience was not written to elicit sympathy. I have chosen to write my very detailed experience in an effort to honor my child, to benefit from writing’s therapy, to inform those interested in what transpired, and to offer empathy and hope to anyone else who has entered this circle.Note: This post contains photos of my baby, which was delivered at 17 weeks.
Introduction to miscarriage
Before I had my first miscarriage, I really did not know anything about them. This section can help anyone who is interested understand more about miscarriage. Around 20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, or 30% if you count all the pregnancies that end in miscarriage that are never even known. These miscarriages happen during the first 13 weeks of pregnancy, known as the first trimester. Sean and I have experienced a miscarriage at 12 weeks as well; it was our first pregnancy. About 50% of these miscarriages result in the woman having a D&C to prevent hemorrhaging and infection. A D&C procedure includes dilating the cervix until it’s open enough to either vacuum out what is inside the uterus or scrape it out. I have never heard a single woman report that a D&C is pleasant or that they were able to get through it emotionally well either. I feel very lucky because my 12-week miscarriage resolved on its own. I went into labor at my apartment and delivered what was left of the baby. We went to the hospital and they told me that nothing was left in my uterus so they would NOT have to perform a D&C on me. I am so grateful for that but recognize the many women that have had to experience it. After 13 weeks, if the baby dies in utero, this miscarriage is termed a late-term miscarriage. These late-term miscarriages only happen 1-2% of the time. Depending on the time of the miscarriage, a D&C or D&E may be recommended, or an induction of labor may be the right course. And, in case anyone is interested, a stillbirth is when a baby dies in utero past 20 weeks. A stillbirth is delivered just like a healthy baby with either labor or C-section and only occurs in 0.5% pregnancies.
Miscarriage is not just a statistic. To give you some perspective, my cousin and I have been pregnant the same number of times (4) and yet, she has five kids and I have two. Now to be fair, she had twins and her own struggles to figure out, but you would never know that just by looking at the two of us. There are other women who may only have one full term child in four pregnancies and there are many others that do not have any children in four pregnancies and many that have never even been able to get pregnant. Silent sufferers of miscarriage and infertility have gone through much more than other people may realize because of the ‘invisibility’ of the problem. I say this to help raise awareness for those struggling. I also say this because I know I’m blessed. I don’t want to sound as though I am complaining, because I know the Lord has blessed me with so much. I have two beautiful children; a boy and a girl no less! Some people would trade almost anything to have what I have now. Nonetheless, grief is grief regardless of our blessings or circumstances. We each have the right to share our grief in ways that seem fit for us. So, I hope that I might share my story and my grief with you while simultaneously remembering that my situation could always be worse and, in addition, showing gratitude for what I have.
Finding Out the News
All 5 of us (Mom, Dad, A, B, and the baby) piled into the car with our homemade volcanoes in tow to go find out what the gender of the baby was. We were all excited and the plan was to set off our volcanoes after the appointment with red lava for a girl and blue lava for a boy. We were then going to go and celebrate with Sean’s family, including his pregnant sister, due two weeks before me. As we waited in the waiting room, I received the results of the urine sample I had given moments before. “Yep, everything looks normal” I told myself. We were called back to the ultrasound room and the ultrasound technician mentioned that this would just be a limited ultrasound because they had accidentally scheduled me a couple of weeks too early (this was such a blessing to me, as I could have waited 2 more weeks to find out the news, or go into labor at home without any previous expectation). She assured us that we could still determine the gender and we all followed her into the ultrasound room. As she began looking at baby’s head and arms, I noticed the look on her face. She looked annoyed or perturbed by something and I wondered if this would be a nice interaction for my family. Suddenly, she grabbed hold of my elbow, pulled me close to her and whispered, “I’m so sorry. Baby has died.” “Oh”, I said feeling like it was a fake statement, turning to look at Sean, who was looking for confirmation of his suspicion. “Are you sure?” he wanted to know. “Yes”, she said placing the transducer back over my belly, “There’s nothing.” Sean then courageously got my kids ready to leave the room as the ultrasound technician wiped my belly clean with a few tears making her eyes wet. “What’s happening?” A said. “We can’t see the gender of the baby yet,” said Sean, trying to buy some time. “Does that mean the baby won’t survive?” she questioned. The rest of that appointment went something like this: feeling like any moment someone will come and say that the baby is fine, it was all a weird mix-up, and that I had a healthy baby (insert gender here), trying to hold in emotion, fear, doubt, and tears, and the doctor being completely flabbergasted by the fact that this baby had died. “Have you had any spotting? Any clotting disorders? Have you felt any cramping? Has this happened to any of your other pregnancies? No? Well, this is not what we had expected at all. Here’s what we do from here.”
Preparations
The doctor had told me that in order to get this baby out, I would need to be induced and that the pain would be exactly like the labors I experienced with my healthy babies. How? How was I supposed to convince my body that I could be ready to go into labor, when that experience was supposed to be 5 months away and I had lots of time to figure out how I wanted to handle it all, the pain, the fear, the anxiety, the mental distance, all of it. Suddenly my sadness and confusion of my baby dying turned into real apprehension and fear. At home, my family and I cried and cuddled together for a while on the couch while we tried to process what we had just been told. “Maybe we can still set off the volcanoes?” A innocently wondered.
It was getting later in the day and we needed to let Sean’s family know that we wouldn’t be coming over after all. Sean asked A to take care of me while he made the call. I knew that our tiny bubble of knowledge would grow bigger the more people we told so I asked if we might say a prayer before we let more people in. That prayer was the first of many we had as a couple and family, trying to keep our faith and our lights burning, asking for strength, peace, and comfort and that we might be able to get through the next few days.
We decided that an induction on Thursday would probably make the most sense because we would have one more day to try and process things before going to the hospital and since we were on spring break, we would have the help we needed for our children, since they wouldn’t be going to the hospital with us. We would also have a few days to regroup before returning to “real life”.
That night, I could hardly sleep. I lay awake thinking of all the questions you could ever wonder. How are they going to induce me? Would it be a normal induction, like with Pitocin? Would it be worth it to go into labor on my own? What do we say about B? Is he still a big brother? What do they do with the baby after it has been delivered? Should we come up with a name for it? Should we have a burial for it? What kind of pain medication can I take? How long was this process going to take? Is it possible that my baby is still alive? Did I feel it move? What does this mean for the future? Should I even try again? Should we adopt? Is the expansion of our family over? On and on and on.
The next morning, I received the answers to most of my medical related questions as I spoke with an L&D nurse. No, the induction was not going to be with Pitocin. They would place a drug called Cytotec inside my cervix to help it soften and open. This could take anywhere from 6 to 48 hours. Every 6 hours I would be given another dose of it. In between, I would just be waiting to deliver the baby. I had the option to receive an epidural or I could use fentanyl for the pain associated. Apparently, the contraction pains would be quite strong because of the high dosage of Cytotec they were going to give me. I could wait to go into labor on my own if I wanted to, but it could take weeks (or never) for that to happen and we would be sitting on all the news until then. There were so many things to think about, so with my husband figuring out child care plans and my wonderful friends helping with dinner and morale, I went into cleaning mode. I knew I would not want to return from the hospital with everything out of shape. I knew I would feel even more depressed if that happened. That day, I really felt peace and that I could accept that my baby would not be moving with us into the future. The only sense of grief I had was for my children. I hurt knowing that they were disappointed and that B, especially, was suffering. I was, however, significantly concerned about the procedure that would begin the next day at 6:30 am. That night, my amazing husband gave me a blessing to help prepare me (and I’m sure him as well) for the next day. As he laid hands on my head, I suddenly thought of myself being held in the palm of God’s hand, just as I would do the next day with my sweet baby. I felt very small thinking about being in God’s hands, but I felt well taken care of and I realized that I was just an embryo, like my baby was, compared to the grandeur of God. Still, here He was speaking peace and comfort to my soul; He cared about me and this experience that I was going through. I wanted to treat my child with the same honor, respect, and sacredness that I had just felt about myself.
It was another difficult night for sleep and when 5:30 am hit my alarm, I dreaded leaving the safety of my own bed because I knew that I would feel anything but safe that morning. I’m thankful I didn’t feel panic and that I was able to be calm as I got ready that morning and as we drove to the hospital.
Stages
After checking in, a nurse took us to the room where everything would happen that day. As we sat and waited to get started, we thought about what had happened and what would come that day. We recognized how much we wanted to be together about everything and Sean expressed his biggest desire was to be there for me. I wanted to make sure that he took some time to stop being in “work mode” so he could also grieve for himself as well. To assuage our concerns and to make sure we did our due diligence, we made sure they checked for a heartbeat just one more time before we started the long process of delivery. There of course was no heartbeat. All I could think to say was “darn”. So, that was that. It was time for the baby to come out. It didn’t take long before the first dose of Cytotec was placed and within minutes, I could feel the cramping begin. I cried. I knew each stage along this delivery phase would mean we were one step closer to it being over. It didn’t feel over yet for me because the baby was still inside of me, so passing each milestone of “labor” was a difficult pill to swallow. After the initial pain started, we had six hours to wait before they would check my cervix to see if I needed another dose of Cytotec. So, Sean and I broke out the games. We played Crazy 8’s and Stratego (anything to distract my mind from the pain I was feeling) and he lovingly turned on Michael Buble Radio on Pandora (because he knows it’s my fave). We enjoyed spending time together even though the circumstances weren’t ideal. After the first 3 hours passed however, we were both bored. Yes, I was in pain, but I was still able to move on my own (I had no pain medication in my system) and it seemed like nothing was happening. The nurse and doctor both reiterated that it would feel like nothing, nothing, nothing, and then it all would happen. Everything would just kind of slide out after that, including the baby and placenta. So, we waited. We ate lunch, we watched several episodes of Beat Bobby Flay on the Food Network and we turned on baseball because it was Opening Day after all. I knew that my next dose of Cytotec was coming soon, which was not a pleasant experience, and I hoped that this would be the last dose I needed before delivery, so I opted to start taking fentanyl to see how it felt before there was much more pain.
I am a lightweight when it comes to medication. So much so that it usually knocks me out for quite a while. The nurse only gave me half a dose of the fentanyl and it felt like I was going to fall asleep; I could not keep my eyes open. It did take the edge off of the contractions a smidge, but I wanted to see how much more I could do without falling completely asleep, so I asked for the second half of my dose. My body, though in a strange incomplete way, felt pretty relaxed and although the majority of my pain was still present, it was manageable and that was really all I wanted to accomplish. The second dose of Cytotec was administered, I had dilated 1-2 cm, and I was ready to go another 6 hours. I had the nurse set up a PCA so that I had the power to control how much medication I was receiving. Not long after this, the contractions were much stronger, and the fentanyl wasn’t doing a thing for the pain. I had a suspicion that it wouldn’t take too much longer before the baby would be delivered. Again, this was another stage in the process and my heart broke just a tiny bit more with these intense contractions. The nurse came back and confirmed my suspicion, said that my water broke, and that it was time to call the doctor. Before she even left the room, I felt everything rush out. “It’s over,” I cried. But when the nurse came back in, it appeared that I still had work to do. The baby and placenta had not been delivered yet. I had no urge to push and no pain whatsoever. Once the doctor arrived, I pushed once or twice, and the baby was delivered. One nurse asked if I wanted to see the baby and I slowly nodded my head yes, not knowing what experience lay before me. They placed the baby in a blanket and set it on my chest. I couldn’t see the baby though because I was having a difficult time delivering the placenta and the doctor was working hard to help me. Delivering the placenta was the most painful part of the whole process. It felt as though he was clipping it right out of me. The first chance that I could, I took a peek at the warm but motionless bundle on my chest. I was speechless and amazed at the baby that was before my eyes. The nurse told us that it was a boy and my heart just soared. I know that sounds terribly corny, but I felt so happy; I felt pure joy. I hadn’t been expecting a boy. In fact, I was thinking it might be a girl, but it didn’t matter now, I was holding my baby boy and he was beautiful. I wasn’t as happy at either of my children’s births, probably because I was in more pain and mentally out of it with both children, so I relished in the joy I felt. There were pauses in my experience because the doctor was still helping me and the pain would interrupt, but the moment I remembered that I was holding my baby boy, the biggest smile would appear on my face. It was a moment that I hope I never forget. I remember looking at him. He had a beautiful face, eyes, eyelids, ears, nose, mouth, 10 fingers, 10 toes, and nails on those fingers and toes. He was a real baby, just a smaller version. There is really no way to describe how in awe I felt at this tiny creation. I felt such a presence of who he must surely be as a person. It was amazingly bittersweet. Maybe that sounds weird. Maybe that sounds cruel. Maybe it sounds like I was hopped up on fentanyl. I feel so grateful that it ended this way though because I wasn’t expecting anything. I certainly wasn’t expecting what I got and since it elicited so much joy, I can’t feel anything but grateful. I thank God for blessing me with such a sweet experience and for giving me a look into what creation must be like.
The Decisions
Soon, the nurse took him to weigh him (3.6 oz) and measure him (7 in.). These were more concrete symbols of his existence. He stayed with us either in our arms or in a bassinet until we had to leave. The doctor warned us that after he was delivered he would start to change, and he did. The longer time passed from delivery, the more he started to look like jelly. It was sad, but he was still my son. I would not turn away just because his body wasn’t pretty. We needed to tell the nurse what our intentions were for his “disposition”. We had the option of having a burial or cremation, or we could let the hospital cremate him. Nothing really felt right to me, but since the option of having a burial seemed over the top, we opted for hospital disposition. She also wanted to know what name we wanted to give our baby to put on the death certificate. We opted not to give him one. Sean and I are terrible at coming up with names (we don’t name our children until after they are born) and it just didn’t feel appropriate for us to name him. I believe giving him a name would have made our grieving process even more difficult. If I had chosen to give him a name, it would probably be something in connection with the immense joy and light I felt with him. We also had to choose whether to have an autopsy and chromosomal testing performed.
Saying Goodbye
Not long after this, we were able to leave the hospital. It was 7pm at this point and we had been gone from our other children all day. We did not want to stay overnight, so we began the process of leaving. I went to his bassinet several times with the intention of saying goodbye, but I could never actually utter that word. Goodbye seemed so final, so absolute. I have never left the hospital without taking my child with me. This was the hardest phase for me in the grieving process. Oh, how I longed to be able to take him home with me. How I wanted to continue feeling his light and the joy that would surely come from his presence in my home. The hospital provided us with so many wonderful things donated by others that had lost children: a blanket and cap, a teddy bear, an ornament, a matching bracelet set, a journal, a memory book, fuzzy socks, Hope cards, facial products, a coloring book and colored pencils, etc. These could just never compare to actually taking your child home with you. In a quick moment alone, I finally said goodbye to my sweet baby boy, that I was so, so sorry, and that if I could, I would take him home with me. Before we left, we offered a prayer to finalize our experience and to feel like we’d done everything in our power to honor this child, though we weren’t able to meet him alive. And that was it. I rode in a wheelchair down to the main entrance and we drove home. I’m not quite sure what will happen to the boy that was once mine, but I hope to have an opportunity to raise him in a different time.
Days After
The days after have been filled with deep emotion, some have been in anger and guilt, some in sadness and loss of what I hoped to be the future, some in attempts at distraction and gratitude for the beautiful kids I get to call mine, but all of them included my sweet husband. I am so happy he has been able to be there with me through everything. I haven’t wanted to talk with really anyone and at the same time have truly benefited from the wonderful thoughts and visits that I have received. It has warmed my heart to know that so many of you care, even days and weeks afterwards. I know that I have needed that care in my life despite my difficulties in accepting it. It has been a struggle to keep up with the daily routine. Often, I haven’t felt happiness and I know that it will take time to learn to manage the sadness and that it will decrease as time goes by (as it did with our first miscarriage). It’s hard to believe that such a small person could leave such a hole; a hole that I assume will never quite feel filled. I know that with time and with the strength that I receive from relying on the Savior and the beautiful Atonement He performed for experiences such as this that I will grow stronger, more grateful, and more intentional about how I spend my time. I have been doing just about everything in my power to memorialize my baby. Other than writing my thoughts, I have also worked on a shadow box and scrapbook pages. I also had a neat experience one night. It was a day of confusion and sadness. Nothing felt quite right. At the end of the day, something reminded me of my sweet baby boy and I received a lift and I felt the joy that had come when he was delivered. It was a tender mercy of the Lord without a doubt. I realized that I could continue feeling that same joy if I was able to have reminders of him. Throughout my process I have also felt desirous to help people because of the service they have rendered me and my family. I’m not sure how or when, but I would like to help people in remembrance of him. Hopefully, I can bring more joy and light to people in this world.
Two Weeks Later
I still wonder what happened and what will happen for my family in the future. I still have roller coaster days full of emotion. I still miss my son like crazy. As I was listening to general conference (a church meeting that occurs every 6 months), I thought about how blessings show God’s love for us. I silently wondered if trials could be blessings in disguise. I know that if I go through a trial and I rely on my knowledge of the gospel and on Jesus Christ, that I will come out the other side of that trial different. I may be more cautious, but I know I can be stronger, more resilient, more empathetic towards others, more patient with the ones I love, more appreciative of the times when the sun is shining, and more honoring of my own time on Earth. I know that is how I will become more like my Savior. So, although the cup may be bitter at times, we can find the sweetness again. And, in finding that sweetness, I hope that we may all reflect the wonderful countenance of our Savior.
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