It started, as it almost always does, with a positive pregnancy test. I believe my exact words were, "Oh no." I must have repeated those words two dozen times in the next hour, showing the faint line on the test to my husband and pacing the room, sitting on the bed beside him, getting back up again, and saying, "Oh no," over and over. I had wanted this baby. For a year I had begged him for it. I had made plans, gone to the doctor, gotten my eyes and teeth checked, and even gotten skin tags removed in preparation for this event. And when it finally happened, all I felt was terror.
The next few days were spent looking forward to bedtime each night, when I could sleep and forget that I was pregnant. Doctors appointments were hurriedly made, and I began making insulin adjustments with my diabetic nurse, checking my blood sugar 15 times a day (twice as much as my normal), and measuring every tiny bit of food that I ate. I bought packages of almonds and string cheese because they settled the gnawing hunger without disturbing my blood sugars. I was sick at the time, so my blood sugars were difficult to control. I set a +20% background insulin, and moved it up gradually each day until I was at +50%. I had lost my voice, as well, which Q took as a sign that she should demand to be read to, constantly. I ate as purposefully as I could, but I began to lose weight from the stress.
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| I aimed for meals that did not exceed 30g of carbs. Even the ketchup was carefully measured. |
Sometimes, during the morning, especially, I felt optimism. I felt that I could do this. I felt happy that I was finally getting my very last pregnancy over with. I felt proud that I was giving Q the sibling that I had so long desired to give her. But during the evening, I struggled. I knew that this pregnancy, by its nature, would either end in miscarriage, death, or major surgery. I didn't know if I could handle it. I fought off wave after wave of panic attack by myself, because I was no longer able to take my anxiety medication (a category D).
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| My "baseline" pregnant picture, at 4 weeks and handful of days |
I was not at all prepared for the onslaught of emotions that happened when I experienced a miscarriage at about 6 weeks, 2 weeks after I had found out. I had already gotten my prenatal blood work, had my first appointment with my endocrinologist (who said all looked good), and booked my first ultrasound for the end of May. That night, I dreamed I was miscarrying, and the next morning, there was a little bit of blood. The morning after, there was more, and I knew it was over. It came to me that my sense of smell had been returning to normal, and my breast tenderness had decreased over the past week. I went to the ER to have it confirmed, and I calmly ready my Calvin and Hobbes comic book, but when the nurse walked into the room, I cried and told her I just wanted to go home and be with my daughter.
It was equal parts sadness and relief. Both were deep, intricate feelings. I recognized that the timing had been all wrong, and that my mental health was not at the place it needed to be to cope with a diabetic pregnancy. And I found that will all motherhood comes incredible risk--of bodily pain and of heartbreak. I read other stories of miscarriage on the internet as I tried to prepare myself for whatever physical symptoms might come. Would it hurt? Would I be able to see the baby? If so, what should I do with it?
But I was also limp with relief at having my body back, and especially at being able to take my anxiety medication when I needed it. I no longer had 6 long months of throwing up ahead of me, or doctor's appointments every week, blood work every month or two, and many long, long days of obsessively checking blood sugars and beating myself up the few times I inevitably miscalculated carbs (perhaps a sliver of cake at a birthday party that was 30 grams, while I estimated 20 grams) and found myself with elevated sugars. Wondering, "If I eat this half a homemade muffin and go high, will it hurt the baby?"
I can see that this is one of those things that changes you forever. My miscarriage was, I think, very mild in terms of the many stories I've seen, but I know it has etched something in my heart. I know many miscarriages are much, much worse. I'm sure they're worse when you have no previous children. I'm sure they're worse the further you are along. I'm sure they're worse when you desperately, desperately wanted this pregnancy. I'm sure they're worse when you felt a bond to the life inside you immediately.
I don't like the stigma and discomfort I feel around the subject. My heart feels just the tiniest bit lighter, though, when I tell someone about it, like the grief gets spread just a little thinner. And I understand, now, the inherent pain and risk of motherhood, and of the great sorrow many must feel at Mother's Day. I am miscarrying through it, but I still get to cradle my beautiful, incredible, 4-year-old daughter in my arms and enjoy her drawings, her jokes that made no sense, and her holding my face in her hands and telling me she loves me, so it is still a precious day.
I have given the name "Coriander" to the tiny baby who is now gone, because that is the approximate size he or she was, so I had placed a tiny ball of coriander on S's desk so we could look at it and try to get ourselves excited about the difficult journey ahead of us. I don't feel guilty for my mixed feelings. But I would want Coriander to know that I fought very hard for 2 weeks for you. I wasn't at all sure that it was the future I wanted, but I lived by my measuring cups, food scale, and glucose monitor. I made many appointments for you. I worked harder than anything to breathe through my panic attacks and not take that medication--though I asked several health professionals if I could please, please just take it to get me through the beginning--hoping one of them would say, "Yes, it's fine." I was so afraid, but I was willing to do almost anything for you. You would have adored Q, and I hope we all get to see you in heaven one day. Thank you for the gift you gave me for Mother's Day, and how you have changed me as a mother and as a woman. I know that even your tiniest, shortest life had an important purpose.
