It was a standard question, delivered so gently. My OB, ever so motherly, has seen me through two pregnancy losses in a span of seven months. She knows how hard I'm trying to keep my composure, especially with the fact that we all thought she'd be delivering my baby in four months' time.
Never in my worst nightmares did I ever imagine that I would be delivering a stillborn baby, that I would go through the agony of labor, only to give birth to a baby who I would never bring home. Staring at the death certificate form, I could only gather enough energy to hand it over to my husband. I had a great love for filling up blank forms, loved to volunteer to write for friends--but at that moment, I couldn't pull myself together to even write my name.
Her question, however simple it may seem, holds a deeper meaning. We have been trying for the past year. After being passed around from one specialist to another, being diagnosed at one point that I will never get pregnant without intervention (thank you, ovaries), undergoing more ultrasound exams than I can remember, I got pregnant naturally right after one doctor said I would most probably need medical help. Yes, it was a wonderful surprise.
It was the happiest day of my life. I could scarcely believe the pregnancy test, however faint that second line looked. My husband, ever so pragmatic, was cautiously happy. Me, I was on cloud nine. Months of thinking this is it only to get a monthly visitor has programmed my brain into thinking that I will never, ever get to see a positive pregnancy test, and yet there it was!
Of course, it all came crashing down four weeks later when blood tests confirmed I was losing the pregnancy. It took two blood tests, three ER trips, and four ultrasounds to confirm that the pregnancy was not viable. I hate that word, viable. Like my body can't even do the one job it should have been programmed to do.
After my d&c, I went on a bullheaded mission to get pregnant again. Surely, it was a fluke? Google says it's normal to have an early miscarriage. People shared their own early miscarriages followed by rainbow babies, why shouldn't it be the same for me? A positive pregnancy test three months after my miscarriage, and right on time for our first wedding anniversary (!), was worth all the impending bankruptcy caused by a well-meaning reproductive specialist and even more painful treatments.
Getting pregnant after a miscarriage has its own special kind of pain. Have a little faith, the doctor said. Despite promising milestones, we had a hard time getting attached to the baby, just in case. It wasn't until we saw a dancing little bean on the ultrasound screen did we finally breathe easy. The doctor said the baby's due next Valentine's (how ironic!) We were finally out of the woods.
In hindsight, we probably should have realized it was too good to be true. But, after going through all the pain and sadness, we felt entitled to this one thing. Surely, lightning can't strike twice? Life can't be that cruel. And so there I was, shopping for maternity clothes, taking photos of my ever growing baby bump, and making plans for baby names and baby showers.
Along the way, I lost my lola. My comfort zone. The one person I loved more than anything. I had wanted her to meet the baby. I often blamed myself for not getting pregnant right away, not seeing specialists right away, because I knew that she was getting sick, and I wanted her to meet her first great grandchild while she was still strong. But shit happens, and there are certain things you have to let go if you want to see beyond the overwhelming flood of pain.
Two weeks later, at our gender ultrasound appointment, the doctor said she can't hear the heartbeat on the doppler. It was my favorite thing during checkups, hearing the baby's heart beating like galloping horses. The utter silence that greeted me went on for ten minutes until my OB finally gave up and sent me to the ultrasound room. I was quiet the whole hour while waiting for my turn. In my mind, I was bargaining with God: you already took one baby and my lola this year, can't I have this one, please? I Googled, and some women claim it's normal. Maybe I have an anterior placenta, whatever that means. Again, I felt entitled to have a healthy baby. I suffered too much, gave up so many things just to get here.
"I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat."
Everything was a blur. They kept saying the baby has hydrops, it's been dead for a while, they can't say if it was a boy or girl, it's filled with water, a rare occurrence, I was 1 out of a something-thousand cases.
There are things that you never thought would happen to you. Cautionary tales that always happened to other people, but never to you. After years of having it pretty easy, I have become a cautionary tale. I was twenty weeks pregnant, and then suddenly I was not. It was fourteen days before I turn twenty-eight, and I've already lost two babies. My family and friends were all waiting to hear if it's a boy or girl, and I didn't have the energy to tell everyone that, yes, we lost another one.
So here I am today, fresh from my post-partum check-up. The good doctor says I can start exercising in two weeks. No, we don't have the autopsy results yet. Yes, you need to get more tests. Maybe, it can occur again. You need to find out why he died.
"When are you planning to try again?"
And I'm back to where I started. What happens when you can't glue yourself back together after falling apart? I can't even figure out where I am in the grieving process. One day I'm okay, then suddenly I'm crying or having anxiety attacks. In my epidural-free haze after delivering the baby, I distinctly remember my heart breaking when my husband asked to see the baby, and after triple-checking, they confirmed it was a boy. He kept asking if they were sure, because maybe it was a girl? I knew how much he wanted to have a little boy to play basketball with, and for some reason, seeing him so crushed triggered my grief.
We named him Javier. I'm thankful our family, especially Jake's parents, were so supportive, both emotionally and financially. We didn't have the heart nor the energy to face the daunting tasks of filing death notices and the required cremation for a stillbirth. We were not prepared to shell out money for a procedure that costs as much, if not more, than a normal delivery. Not this soon, and not without a baby to bring home. Somehow, it added insult to injury. All these expenses for what? My baby's ashes in a little urn? We were all anticipating his arrival in four months. We were all aching for a baby to bring us some happiness. We all felt we deserved to hold a healthy baby in our arms and watch him grow up. This was not the scenario we had planned for our lives.
And so, when are we planning to try again? For the life of me, I have no idea. Do I want to get pregnant again just to replace Javier? Definitely not. Are we scared this time around? Yes, life has definitely taken us for a ride. What if there's a rainbow baby at the end? I can't even imagine going back to step one, taking tests, hoping for something every month, terrified to death until I give birth.
To be honest, I was never a religious person. Before all of this mess, I would only pray and wish for a baby, thinking that God would surely provide, because isn't pro-creation the whole point of getting married? Now, I keep praying that Jake and I will get through this together, and that we'll be happy for the rest of our lives, with or without children. I pray for the strength to overcome and accept whatever curveball life throws at me; because, frankly, I'm tired of trying to get from point A to point B on the road to healing and recovery.
How did I suddenly arrive here on the grown-up train? Why am I cremating my baby a day before my birthday? I keep wishing for my innocence back, for my happy-go-lucky twenty-seven year old self. My life with all the happy possibilities in a dreamy haze of perfect snapshots. I lost a part of myself when I lost my baby boy, and no amount of healing can bring her back.
