Hunger Pangs: My Breastfeeding Experience

 Even before we ever got pregnant, I had a feeling breastfeeding might not be in the cards for me. I knew so many people who had wanted desperately to breastfeed their kids, but for whom it hadn’t worked out. I fully understand that breast milk is the best milk for babies, especially preemies. I always wanted very much to be able to breastfeed my own babies, but I knew it wasn’t a guaranteed thing, and I knew there was no shame if, for whatever reason, it didn’t work out.

And it didn’t work out. For many reasons. I don’t feel guilt from society about it, because I know it was the best decision for our family. But I feel deeply sad about it. I grieve not being able to give that to my baby boy. Even as I write this my eyes are welling up with tears. I think it’s something I will always be sad about, even though as soon as we made the decision I was overcome with intense relief and a great sense of freedom. 

Everyone’s story about how and why they choose to feed their babies a certain way is different and intensely personal. I don’t pretend to know what’s best for everyone, and I’m not looking for validation or trying to justify myself and I’m certainly not looking for “why didn’t you try ____?” Or “so and so did this and it worked out fine.” I’m simply sharing my journey, and hoping that maybe it resonates with someone else out there who had a similar experience, and that maybe they don’t feel quite as alone in their grief.

There are a few things I wish I had known about breastfeeding beforehand. I had started an online breastfeeding class the day before my water broke, but had been planning on spreading it out over a few days to help keep me occupied over the next three weeks HAHA. This class didn’t cover in any sort of detail the things I wish I had known, and I don’t know that these would have been covered in a typical breastfeeding class (and I would be interested to hear from someone who has taken a class or read a book if this information was covered!)

What I wish I had known:

—I always knew I would need to pump when I returned to work, but I never thought I would have to pump before I even tried to actually breastfeed! Maybe that was naive. When you have a C-section, especially one significantly earlier than your due date, it takes longer for your milk to come in. I knew that, but I never realized that I would have to pump on a full feeding schedule in order for my milk to come in,

—or that the first few days hardly anything would be produced and that would make me feel like I was going through the motions of a really uncomfortable and mechanical process for what felt like nothing,

—or that preemies (especially boys) take longer to learn to breastfeed because it wears them out much more than bottle-feeding. Since they are already working harder to perform basic bodily functions like maintaining body temperature and breathing, they don’t always have the energy required to work for their food. Even if they latch and suckle successfully, they are often still not consuming as much as they need.

—Lactation consultants will manhandle you. It is not weird for them because it’s their job. But it’s okay if it’s weird for you. Because it is weird. Necessary at times in order to instruct. But weird. And uncomfortable.

—While learning to breastfeed in the hospital, you will likely need to just take your shirt off and be exposed to the lactation people and the nurses, and any doctors who happen to pop in during that time. Again, not weird for them, but maybe for you.

—I’ve heard it said frequently that very few women are actually not able to produce enough milk. What I never heard said was how hard some women have to work in order to be able to produce that milk! And that’s hard work on top of recovering from labor and/or surgery and taking care of a tiny, vulnerable, helpless person in addition to herself.

Maybe if I had known more of these things ahead of time (especially since it was likely my son was going to come early so all the preemie/milk coming in later stuff would likely apply to me) I would have been more mentally prepared to take on the challenge. Maybe.

In any case, I knew none of that and was just thankful that I was able to have skin-to-skin bonding with my baby directly after my emergency C-section. I know that is not something everyone has the opportunity to do, especially with a preterm baby. His nurse said his blood sugar was a little low and asked if it would be okay to give him formula when she got him back to the special care unit, even though she knew I was planning to breastfeed. My husband and I both immediately responded yes, by all means if he needs formula, give it to him. We had known our little guy would probably need supplementation since he had arrived early, and we were just fine with that.

While we were enjoying those first quiet moments with our son, the lactation nurse arrived. She was very nice, but began spewing a LOT of information and manhandling me and my son, all while my brain was still spinning from the anesthesia, the whirlwind of the day’s events, and the fact that the little person in my arms had only hours ago been kicking the insides of my belly. Needless to say, I did not retain much information.

The gist I got from her was that every drop of colostrum (the thick, early breast milk) would be beneficial to our baby, I have inverted nipples which would make it more difficult for the baby to latch but not impossible, and that I would need to start pumping 8-12 times a day starting now. 

After my son was taken away to the special care unit, she got me started with a hospital pump. She tried to get my husband involved, and I could tell by the look on his face that he was as overwhelmed and uncomfortable as I was. Watching the doctors cut me open and pull my insides out of my body was not a problem for him, but this was. Truly, it was an uncomfortable, awkward, and mechanical process that after 15 minutes or so yielded one whole drop. I had always imagined that breastfeeding would be a sweet, intimate experience, but so far I felt like a tired, manipulated cow. 

I finally expressed to everyone that I was feeling lightheaded and she got the hint that it was time for her to go. She urged me to pump every few hours the rest of the day, but I could take a 5 hour break at night.

Not long after she left, I got sick to my stomach, and as my nurse hooked me up with some lovely anti-nausea medicine to help knock me out so I could get some sleep, she told me not to worry so much about pumping today. “They always try to get you pumping right away, but you have to take care of yourself. You just had surgery, and you need to rest! As long as you pump once more before you go to bed, you can start fresh tomorrow.”

I was relieved by her words and pumped one more time that night, with no results. Annoyed and tired and confused, I then didn’t have the energy in me to go down to the special care unit that night to see my baby which was very hard for me. My husband went to see him saying, “No offense, but I’d rather be with him.” I totally agreed. Our baby needed at least one of us!

The next day, I knew I needed to get on a pumping schedule, but I wasn’t really sure how to start. The lactation nurse’s information from the day before was too much for my overwhelmed brain to retain much. Also, I had bigger problems, like getting up out of bed to go to the bathroom (ow), and trying to push past the pain and discomfort in my body to go down the hall and see my baby.

The lactation nurse came back around that afternoon and I confessed that I had only pumped one more time since seeing her 24 hours ago. She seemed somewhat concerned but said, “That’s okay. We can get you on a schedule now and you should be able to catch back up.”

Thus began my schedule of pumping for 15 minutes or so every 2-3 hours. After each pumping session, I had to wash and dry all of the pump parts, which added another 15 minutes of time. Because I was moving so slowly while recovering from my surgery, it was difficult for me to manage basic bodily functions (going to the bathroom, eating food, adjusting my position in bed, getting dressed, etc.) much less pumping. And any tiny bit of spare time I had I wanted to spend with my son, who, you know, this was all about anyway. But it was exhausting, so more often than I wanted, I had to send my husband off to be with him during his care times, while I sat like a cow, pumping with no results.

It slowly got easier. I forced myself to move around more and tried to ignore the pain and discomfort so that I could spend more time with my baby.  I started to slowly see results from the pumping, as all the nurses had assured me I would. I was so relieved that I had something to offer my baby, and I felt a renewed sense of hope that this would work out for us. 

When he was a few days old, the lactation nurse helped us as we tried to get him to latch for the first time. I was degraded to feeling like a high school freshman again as the flatness of my breasts was discussed. Because of my inverted nipples and my little guy’s little mouth, it was basically going to be impossible—at least in the beginning—without a nipple shield. An awkward silicone nipple shield was placed on me, and we attempted nursing. 

My baby boy did well, though he did appear to get worn out quickly. I was encouraged to try feeding him for a few minutes a couple times a day before his bottle. Sometimes he did better than others. One time when he was not very interested, I urged him gently to bear with me and just try and then he could have his “real food.” My husband immediately told me gently but firmly, “Stop. Don’t go down that path.” My eyes welled with tears. He was right—that sort of negative thinking wasn’t going to help the situation. 

When I was discharged on the fourth day, I was allowed to remain in my room and keep using the hospital grade pump I was assigned. I took advantage of my 5 hour pumping breaks at night, but every morning, I wheeled my pump down the hall to my baby’s room and parked myself there for most of the day. At least I was able to be near him, even though I had to pump frequently which cut into my time being able to hold him.

By day five I saw a significant increase in my milk supply. I finally felt a renewed sense of hope amid all the stress, but it was short lived. The stress was getting to me, especially now that my husband was only around in the evenings. During the days, I spent as much time in our boy’s room as I could, but I was tired of pumping, tired of having to hold him on a leash of monitors, tired of having to hobble around the rest of the hospital when I needed to eat, get water, or go to the bathroom (which is a whole unpleasant experience of its own after a C-section!), tired of not knowing when we could take him home.

I told the lactation consultant that I had had a very successful day on day five, but that I was no longer seeing those same results. She told me stress could affect it, that I was doing everything right, and that every drop I could give my son was valuable.

By the time our baby boy was discharged from the hospital, we had a set plan that I would continue to pump and we would give him whatever I made then supplement with formula. It was at about half and half, but his appetite quickly grew and I wasn’t always able to keep up. The setup we had at home was not ideal. I was pumping in a room by myself, then washing the parts in the bathroom to save myself time from going downstairs at all hours of the day. (I’ve heard that some people will just put their pump parts in the refrigerator between sessions, but I was warned not to do this with a preemie, as the risk of bacteria growing is higher.) Between doing this eight times a day, eating, attempting to sleep, and trying to spend as much time as I could with my newborn son, I was at my wit’s end by the time we had his first doctor’s appointment a few days later. I felt sure that if I could just try breastfeeding that my body would respond by ramping up my supply.

Thankfully, his pediatrician said that he had gained enough weight that I could try to exclusively breastfeed. I was so relieved to finally have a chance to do that! What I didn’t realize was that I should continue pumping while making that transition. I didn’t realize that my baby would not only get worn out while nursing, but he would not have the strength to get as much milk as he needed. I didn’t realize that the nipple shield would help him latch, but that his latch would be shallow, resulting in even more restricted flow.

I realized too late that I should have made an appointment with the outpatient lactation consultants right away. Instead, I waited a few days and called only when I started to see several warning signs that my son was not getting enough milk, the most obvious and frightening one being his voraciously sucking on his hands after a long nursing session as if he were starving. The horrible fear crept in that maybe I was not able to feed my son.

We finally caved and supplemented formula in a bottle for him, and I made the appointment. The woman on the phone told me among other things, “You’re going to hate me for saying this, but you should still be pumping after every feed.”

It was a long, sleepless weekend while we waited for that appointmet, and we compiled our long list of questions that needed answered.

I was afraid that the lactation consultant would try to convince me in any possible way that I must breastfeed at all costs. Instead, one of the first questions she asked me was how I was dealing with pumping. I got all choked up as I answered honestly, “Not great.” She could see clearly that the pumping was breaking me, and she offered as much information as she could:

—Our son was only getting about 6-8 milliliters of milk in a 30 minute nursing session when he would frequently drink 60 out of a bottle (no wonder he was acting hungry!!). So we would need to continue to supplement from a bottle. From what I was pumping over the weekend, we would be supplementing more than half formula.

—The nipple shield was helping him latch, but again, the latch was shallow and he was not able to get much milk that way.

—The consultant showed me how to encourage him to latch without the shield by manhandling us both. It was exhausting for both baby and me, and though it eventually worked, I knew I would not have it in me to do that at every nursing session.

—I did in fact have a low supply, due probably to:

-the fact that it took us awhile to get pregnant indicated that I probably have a hormonal imbalance which would affect my supply

-the fact that I never should have gone more than 4 hours without pumping in the beginning

-I’d been using the nipple shield and not pumping so my body assumed I didn’t need nearly as much milk as I actually did.

There were things that I could do to try to increase my supply:

  -pump longer and more frequently (?!)

-do 90 minutes of skin-to-skin daily (when will I have the time?!)

-only use the nipple shield after attempting to get him to latch without it 3 or 4 times (which would be both physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting for both of us).

She laid out exactly what it would take to get us exclusively breastfeeding within 3-5 weeks, though even then he would still likely need a formula supplement. She offered all of this without ramming down my throat that “breast milk is the very best thing you can offer your child,” and that if I chose not to pursue it I would be denying my child his fullest potential.

Instead, she recognized that I had been through a really difficult pregnancy after trying for awhile to get pregnant, that I would have to return to work at some point in the next two months, and that perhaps I was tired and wouldn’t want to spend most of my maternity leave pumping on the off chance that I was able to produce enough milk eventually, only to have to return to work and pump some more. I think she really wanted to be able to offer me a simpler solution, but she acknowledged that this was the best chance we had, and I think she could see without judgment what I was about to decide.

When my husband came home from work, I laid out all the information for him. As I was talking, we both knew what our decision would be. For my mental and physical health, I could not keep pumping. As much as I wanted to offer my son my breast milk, I wanted to offer him my presence more. I couldn’t spend the first two months of his life miserable and exhausted and stressed out, especially if it ultimately wasn’t going to work out. After all we had done fighting to get him here alive and well, I didn’t have any fight left in my body to feed him, and I didn’t want to make him fight anymore either.

Sometimes I wonder how it could have been different—

Maybe if I had been more mentally prepared for what I would have to do to get my supply up.

Maybe if I hadn’t received mixed information in the beginning.

Maybe if I had had better results in the beginning and had been able to maintain that momentum.

Maybe if I hadn’t spent five weeks in the hospital.

Maybe if I had felt like I’d been able to bond with my baby more and better in the beginning.

Maybe if I hadn’t felt so much stress and anxiety throughout my pregnancy.

Maybe if our country offered an appropriately compensated amount of time for maternity and paternity leave rather than an ambiguous unpaid 12 weeks which hardly offers enough time for such a major life change, especially when fathers are not afforded as much time as mothers so mothers are often left to their own devices while still recovering.

Maybe if. . .

Maybe if. . .

But it doesn’t matter—we made the decision we did because of the way things played out. Because this crazy pregnancy during this crazy year was already more than I ever thought I could handle and now that my son is here, I just want to be with him. I don’t want to split my time with a machine and feel that I can’t enjoy my son. Maybe that sounds selfish, but it was also for him. He deserves a mom who is present and not on the brink of madness.

As soon as we made the decision to formula feed, we felt immediate and intense relief. My husband was glad he wouldn’t have to watch me struggle under the pressure anymore. I suddenly felt free in a way I hadn’t in a long time—honestly, since before I was pregnant. Not being chained to a pump meant I would have time (albeit very little time at least for several weeks) to go for walks. To take showers. To do some writing. To drink coffee. To enjoy snuggles with my son rather than always watching the clock until it was time to pump or feed again. I was free for the first time in months to live my life naturally rather than clinically.

I admire women who are able to exclusively pump for their babies. I am not one of those women. I admire women who are able to breastfeed, especially when they have to overcome major challenges or still supplement. I am not one of those women. I admire formula-feeding women like me, because we know our limits whether we like them or not. I will always be thankful that I was able to at least try breastfeeding, and always sad that I wasn’t able to give more breast milk to my son. I know how valuable it is, especially for preemies. But I also know that he is a tough cookie, I know my own limits, and I know that I will be able to feed him and love him better this way. 

After we decided to switch to formula and I was weaning myself off the pump, I still cried every time I pumped as I watched my supply dry up completely.  It was like my body was mourning this thing that it couldn’t properly do for the life it had carried and grown. I still cry every time he is upset and looks around at me to nurse for comfort. I still cry when his little belly gets upset from the formula. I’m crying right now just thinking about how I couldn’t do this for him, and wondering still:  if I had tried harder, would I have been able to?

And then I remember all those nights in the hospital, with just the two of us, him kicking away in my belly and me wondering if we would even make it out alive. The fact that my inability to breastfeed him is the only thing out of this entire situation that I am grieving is absolutely a miracle. That doesn’t invalidate my feelings, but it helps me to reorient my point of view to one of intense gratitude. I am choosing to be grateful that I can feed my son, even if it’s not in the way I want to. 

So to all you mamas out there who weren’t able to breastfeed or had to stop early for whatever reason, I see you. I feel your pain. And I trust that our kids will be just fine. 

Expect the Unexpected

Just this past Sunday when the day was beautiful and warm, I dutifully donned my compression stockings—which I have been wearing very regularly since another blood clot popped up on my left leg recently—and put on one of my cute floral maternity dresses. For the first time in awhile I felt lovely, and I thought about how the most wild thing I would have to write about for this update in which WE MADE IT TO THE THIRD TRIMESTER was the blood clot that popped up a couple weeks ago. It’s cute that I thought that, and I should know better than to celebrate reaching such a milestone too early. You’ll soon see what I mean.

I was annoyed and inconvenienced that the horrible pain and swelling that popped up in a cluster of varicose veins on my thigh would send us to the doctor again, midway through what was supposed to be our last uneventful four weeks before the final stretch of the third trimester would begin. However, always better to be safe than sorry, so we went to the doctor in the morning and then had to go to a separate facility for an ultrasound of my leg in the afternoon.

In a sad way, it was wild and exciting to get a different kind of ultrasound, one that was less invasive and less worrisome. Thankfully, the clot turned out to be a small superficial one, with no sign of DVT. Of course, this type of clot is normally treated easily with blood thinners, which is not an option for a pregnant bleeder like me. Instead, I was instructed to do what I did when I had a similar clot back in March:  wear compression stockings regularly and apply a warm compress several times a day.

Also similar to the clot I got in March, this one popped up after two days in a row of not wearing any compression stockings. I knew I should be wearing them, but the weather was so warm and beautiful Memorial Day weekend that I didn’t want to clutter it up with thick, pesky stockings. . .I now know better! I upped my compression wearing to about 12-20 hours a day, and within a week, the area seemed to have drastically improved.

At the same time, our little boy was experiencing a big growth spurt (all that extra weight probably wasn’t helping the circulation situation!). I spent several days wrestling with the physical, mental, and emotional toll caused by the constant changes in my body over that week. It’s hard when one day you can squeeze through a narrow space and the next you can’t, or when simple tasks like picking something off the floor become noticeably increasingly more difficult with each passing day. It’s so easy to tell a friend that it’s all for a beautiful purpose of growing a human, but it’s much harder to experience and cope with the changes in your own body. Totally and 100% worth it, yes, but that doesn’t belittle the very real feelings of insecurity that come with the constant need to adapt.

So by Sunday I had sorted through all these feelings, cried my tears of acceptance, and was finally feeling really excited and happy this pregnancy. Knowing we were headed for the homestretch, and out of the intense danger zone, it was easier to accept the increasing physical discomfort. So in my pretty dress, I enjoyed the sunshine and time with our parents, and the confidence that we would officially enter the third trimester peacefully on Tuesday.

It was a nice idea.

Sunday evening our baby was very active, and I was beginning to feel sort of waves through my belly that led to one side of my abdomen sticking out significantly. It was like he was rolling back and forth or something. We thought it was funny, even though the tightening in my belly was slightly uncomfortable and constantly putting pressure on my bladder.

But as the waves continued to roll as I tried to get comfortable for bed, I realized that they must be contractions, though probably just Braxton Hicks since they were just causing discomfort and not real pain. I tried not to be paranoid that there seemed to be so many of them. I knew they were normal, and we would see the doctor on Wednesday to clear up any concerns or uncertainty.

I fell into a fitful sleep, and woke up around 5:30 in the morning to go to the bathroom. I didn’t turn the light on, but when I sat down, I saw the unmistakable dark streak of blood on my pad. Groaning out a quiet expletive, I stood to see that the inside of the toilet bowl was red—again.

It wasn’t like the horror-film-like scenes I had witnessed in the first trimester, and I had recently felt the baby move, so I didn’t automatically assume the worst, but I knew it could be serious and that I would need to be checked out ASAP. 

I woke up my husband, and he sprung into action getting our “go-bag” that we had packed several months ago after our last hospital visit just in case. Knowing that most of the articles of clothing I had put in there probably wouldn’t fit me these days, I added a few items while I attempted to contact my doctor (who had given me her cell phone number early on). She didn’t answer, but we got in the car and headed to the hospital anyway.

On the way, I called the on-call doctor at the office and he told us to go to the hospital, and that we could skip the ER and go straight to Labor and Delivery. They got me checked in and when I went to fill the urine sample, I could tell that the bleeding had stopped—it had just appeared to be the little gush when I went to the bathroom at home, so that was hopeful.

They got me hooked up to the monitor and we had the pleasure of listening to the rhythm of our son’s heartbeat and the whooshes of the fluid while he practiced his powerful kicks. 

For several hours, we experienced:

•  the usual round-up of blood work, 
• the same questions over and over, 
• a doctor and resident (who are partners of my doctor) performing a pelvic exam (which was unpleasant, but I focused on the fact that I could hear my son’s heart beating and feel his movements within me, and the fact that there was no way this would be as traumatic as the pelvic exams I experienced in the ER!), 
• eating small snacks (certainly not enough to satisfy this very pregnant woman and her very growing boy), 
• experiencing 8-12 Braxton Hicks contractions per hour, 
• drinking the dreaded glucose for my glucose screening (which I didn’t find to be as horrible tasting as other people do, but I did feel it wanting to creep back up my esophagus for a few minutes...), 
• receiving a steroid shot in my backside (to help the baby’s lungs and organs mature in case he does need to deliver early), 
• being told that I was not in active labor at all and that everything appeared stable for the moment but we were still going to be transferred to another hospital to be evaluated by the Maternal Fetal Medicine specialists just to be on the very safe side, 
• and waiting way longer than we were originally told so that we never ate a real meal and survived off of crackers and cheese sticks.

Eventually the transport vehicle came for me, and we made it to the other hospital. Once there, it was a fairly short wait to see the specialist since their office hours were almost over. We got an ultrasound (which included yet another internal ultrasound...yay) neither of which our son cooperated for. But everything looked good.

The specialist told us that there was no obvious reason for my bleeding, but that the best guess was a slight or partial placental abruption (where the placenta tears away from the uterine wall). Since it all seemed to be stable, they wanted to keep me at the hospital to continue monitoring me for the next 72 hours to make sure there was no more bleeding and that baby remained strong and healthy. Which was not fun to hear, but we understood completely that this is all about being as careful as they can be. They want our little boy to come into this world as safely and as healthy as possible, just like we do, so they need to keep a close eye on the situation to better be able to make sure that happens.

I was also told that my glucose levels were “slightly elevated,” which could have been due to the steroid shot I had been given, but would also require further monitoring and testing before gestational diabetes could be ruled out. It was not the best news for a hangry mama bear, but I was also not really surprised at all. I mean, why not? Put it on my tab.

We got settled into our room, ordered food, and filled in our parents with what was going on. And now it’s 3 am and I can’t sleep. The big plastic monitors on my belly are tracking baby boy’s heartbeat, and while I’m not thrilled that I have to be hooked up like this for a full 24 hours, it is still such a comfort to hear him. My husband is snoozing away on what must be a horribly uncomfortable fold out couch, and I’m once again jealous that he can sleep anywhere. Thankfully my pesky contractions are now few and far between so not much of a nuisance, and the sounds of my baby’s heart beating and my husband’s breathing fill me with so many feelings that my eyes keep filling with tears. I will never forget the moment we first saw the little flicker of our son’s heart beating, when he was about the size of a coffee bean. That flicker of hope continues to grow, and tonight the sound is the light in my darkness. 

I’m so thankful for my little family, for my steadfast husband and our stubborn fighter of a baby boy. I’m annoyed by all the inconvenience of this, but I know that we are well cared for, and it is all for the best in the end. And I’m also thankful for the fact that the strictest Covid restrictions have significantly loosened so that my husband is actually allowed to stay with us. I can’t imagine having to go through this alone!

So I’m not starting out my third trimester in a cute maternity sundress, but even in my gel-covered hospital gown and unwashed hair and constant hunger (because of fasting for glucose I am not allowed any late night snacks), there is a deep peace and joy that abides. Probably not the kind that will help me actually fall asleep while I feel so grungy and have these monitors in my way, but the kind that will help me get through another day, whatever that day may bring.

I’m getting really good at just going with the flow and trying to remain calm and patient while resorting to humor and Pollyanna’s “glad game” to get through the rough patches. Earlier my husband commented on how much better I’ve gotten in hospitals, and I joked that God must have known I would need some serious practice in a hospital before I have to go through the ordeal of birthing a baby. 

So here we are. God is Good, ALL THE TIME.

As always, thank you for joining me on this journey through this complicated, high-risk pregnancy. It seems like every time we think everything is finally going okay and “normal,” things takes a twisted turn for the “what now?!”

It’s not what I would call fun, but we’ve learned and grown a lot from all of this. One of the biggest lessons we continue to be reminded of is how little of this is in our control. Our fertility was not ultimately in our control, and this pregnancy has often felt wildly out of our control. It reminds me that there is a real, bigger plan and purpose for all us. That is where my hope lies, and where my peace and joy begin. 

A Light in the Darkness

Everyone has their own concerns and uncertainties about the present and the future in this pandemic. It’s a lot for anyone. And for me, an often irrationally angry pregnant lady, it’s extremely overwhelming. My feelings are all over the place, but I try to always come back to that one central thing that I know is constant and won’t ever change: the love that surrounds us. The love of God and family and friends is always there for us, and I am thankful for it every day.

The weight and darkness of the world and our year so far has been weighing on me more lately, but we received quite a bit of good news in the last couple weeks, so I’m trying to stay focused on these flickers and flashes of hope:

—My husband was allowed to accompany me to the 24 week appointment and 25 week ultrasound. We both had to wear masks, which has just become normal and no longer fazes us. The people working at the doctor’s office also seemed much more comfortable with the extra precautionary measures in place. When I was there a month ago, everyone seemed on edge. But this time, the medical professionals seemed confident that their new protective measures and screening process were working, which helped ease our anxiety a bit as well. 

—At 24 weeks, our baby boy reached the point of viability! Of course, 24 weeks is never an ideal time to deliver, and the chances of survival outside the womb increase every week from here on out. But with all the troubles we had early on, an early delivery has always been a possible necessity to get ahead of any complications. The doctors have told us that 24 weeks is good, but 28 weeks and beyond is the most ideal. We’re getting there!

—Our doctor said that my pregnancy is looking mostly “normal.” The septum in my uterus appears to be so minor that the baby has plenty of room to grow and move around, at least for now. Again, it’s something that we’ll keep an eye on, as it could be a reason for needing an early delivery at some point, but for now, all appears to be progressing just fine.

—The placenta has also moved so that it is no longer previa. I don’t even know if I ever mentioned this is any of my posts, but a couple months ago we were told I had placenta previa, which is when the placenta blocks the cervix. With the placenta blocking the cervix, a natural birth  would mean that the placenta would come out before the baby and deprive the baby of nutrients, not to mention cause other complications for the mother. Complications are usually avoided altogether by performing a C-section. But my placenta has moved out of the way completely. It’s nice to know that that is one less thing I’ll need to worry about, and it gives me hope that I may be able to have a vaginal birth after all.

—Our ultrasound showed our baby boy being as stubborn as ever. No matter how much the ultrasound tech tried to poke at him to get him to move so she could get a better angle, all he really offered were a few big kicks telling her to leave him alone. It was a new and incredible experience getting to feel those kicks at the same time I saw them! She was able to get all the measurements she needed and reported that he was measuring five days ahead of his due date. He is definitely going to be a big boy!

—We also learned that the subchorionic hematoma has completely resolved! It was such a relief to hear that. Even though everyone told us while it was happening that the bleeding we experienced early on was usually harmless to the baby, and that these things usually resolve by week 20 and after that most people go on to have a normal pregnancy, it didn’t prevent us from being anxious and traumatized as we lived through it. 

There’s been lots of good news these couple of weeks, and I’ve loved feeling our growing boy’s movements become more and more pronounced. A part of me is still anxious, because I can’t shake the memory of being told that we were “out of the woods” at 10 weeks only to wind up in the hospital three times in the next few weeks.  

It’s been a rough year, from bleeding and fearing miscarriage almost from the get-go, to months of appointments and ultrasounds and feeling sick most of the time, to multiple traumatizing ER visits, to life in a pandemic, to the stress of moving from the only home we have known together, to wondering if this pandemic will ever end. Sometimes I wonder how it might all be different, if we hadn’t had such a rough first half of this pregnancy, or if we were pregnant in a time that wasn’t a pandemic. 

What I always come back to, though, is how in our years of trying to get pregnant, we learned to have a much greater reliance on God and His perfect timing. The word that keeps coming back to me these days is Esther 4:14, “Perhaps you were born for such a time as this.” I’m starting to really believe that. Like Esther, I’m not particularly thrilled by all the circumstances of my situation, but I trust that it is all part of God’s plan and He will give me the strength to see it through. And I believe that our years-long wait for our son were because he will be born at exactly the time he is meant to be. 

Recap at 16 Weeks

To recap my last few posts:  we had three separate occasions of heavy bleeding that sent us to the ER, one which ended with an overnight stay. All were thankfully due to subchorionic hematoma/hemorrhage, which did not harm the baby (and eventually shrank significantly, hopefully meaning that it’s on its way out completely!). They were just truly terrifying, exhausting, and uncomfortable experiences where we constantly feared we might be losing the baby. 

My uterus is still a mystery—is it septate? Bicornuate? Both? Either way, will it continue to cause problems, or will things level out as the pregnancy progresses and the baby continues to grow normally? Why are there no answers?

On the bright side, every time we’ve checked in on the baby (which has been at least once a week), we have seen that little heartbeat—our flicker of hope—beating away. He or she is growing right on schedule. Generally uncooperative for snapping good pictures and always bouncing around or lounging in a weird position (definitely our kid), we have gotten to see our little nugget grow exponentially, and we are thankful for every opportunity.

It’s still a slightly terrifying experience, because we don’t know what will happen or how it will happen. But honestly, this is true in any pregnancy. There is never any guarantee. Just add in the bonuses of a really difficult first trimester and a world pandemic. The anxiety is real. 

Only time will tell what our situation is, but as we learned in our struggles to conceive, it’s all in God’s perfect (though sometimes befuddling) timing. We trust that He allowed us this Christmas miracle for a reason, and He will see us through this journey. We have hope that the worst is behind us, but even if it’s not, we know we have the love and support we need to make it through anything.

It took a lot for us to get here, but we made it to week 16. We continue to be so incredibly thankful for every minute of this little life who is the most perfect gift to us, especially after several years of struggling to get pregnant. I will continue to post on here as we have updates, so feel free to subscribe for email updates. 

Thank you again for your support!

Mayday (Part 3)

Hopefully for the last time, I want to reiterate the warning I offered in my last post:  if you’re squeamish at all, or if a story about extremely heavy bleeding in pregnancy that includes a threatened miscarriage might be triggering, or you don’t like to hear about blood or bodily functions, save yourself now. Trust me, I will not be offended. It’s weird enough for me to put these details out on the Internet as it is, so I understand if it’s not your cup of tea. Also, I promise a recap in the next post that doesn’t include all the gory details.

After our last ER ordeal, we found that the emotions caught up to us over the next few days. While we were incredibly thankful that our experience had a  happy ending, we knew perfectly well that it could have gone another way. That combined with the fear and anxiety that it could all happen again was a lot for us to process.

I attempted to go back to work later that week, but I was still exhausted and having issues sleeping. I realized quickly that working in coffee in such a fast-paced environment was going to be too physically demanding with everything I had going on. Thankfully the higher ups at work were very understanding and willing to work with me to find a quieter position for the time being. My last two shifts in coffee for the foreseeable future were going to be a Friday and Saturday, and I was determined to work them all the way through.

Work them I did, and though I was exhausted, I felt better mentally. Knowing I had done my best, and that I would be doing more low-key work and not have to be on my feet as much in the near future helped ease my anxiety. But in the last few hours of my shift, I started to feel weirdly crampy. 

I didn’t think too much of it, and assumed it was due to the stress of being on my feet and doing more physical activity in the last two days than I had in nearly two weeks. I went home after my shift and laid down, and shortly after, the bleeding started again. It wasn’t as heavy as the last time, but it was still right around the ER-worthy bleeding I had been warned against (i.e. two pads in an hour), and this time I was having weird cramps and stomach pains. I called me doctor and she advised that I could wait another hour to see if the bleeding continued, and if so to head to the ER.

An hour later we headed to the ER. We knew the drill at this point. This time, the bleeding wasn’t coming in huge gushes, but was more of a constant, heavy flow. And the cramps and stomach pains I had made me wonder if there were blood clots to come, and of course the constant fear of a miscarriage. The ultrasound showed our baby looking great again, but the subchorionic hematoma (from my understanding, a hematoma is the pooling of blood or clot that collects in the uterus, whereas a hemorrhage is the active bleeding of that hematoma.) had grown significantly. Between that and the UTI we found, we left feel exhausted and slightly defeated.

We decided it would be best for me to take the next week off work to let the bleeding clear up and the pain go away, and to make sure I didn’t have any more issues. Which was a good thing, because two days later, I began to pass unthinkably ginormous blood clots. 

Over the course of an evening, I passed at least a dozen huge, dark clots—one was the size of the palm of my hand, others were the size of my fist, a few the size of golf balls, you get the picture. It was weird, and weirder that I wasn’t overly afraid. Each time though, I felt the crampy pain in my abdomen lessen, so I felt relieved that those were the cause of the pain. I texted my doctor, and she said that because they were dark and not bright red, they were likely not a cause for concern, but to let her know if anything changed.

Overnight, I had another sleepless night with periodic heavy red bleeding and continued to pass smaller clots. By morning, I felt optimistic that I had likely passed the bulk of the hematoma during that time. I contacted my doctor, and she agreed that was likely the case. She told me to schedule an ultrasound for that day and put in an order for me to get blood drawn to check my levels again.

Once again the ultrasound showed our sweet baby looking completely fine. And the hematoma had shrunk significantly. It had gone down from 10 cm to 4 cm, which meant that I had passed more than half of the hematoma. It had been unpleasant, but at least it had been worth it. My blood levels were a little lower than before, but still totally fine. 

We saw the doctor again a few days later, and she agreed that it would be good for me to take another week off from work, but that as long as I didn’t have anymore issues with bleeding, work would be a good idea for me mentally. (I agreed, but with my job working in the public at a time of pandemic proportions, I admit the anxiety about going back is a lot for me right now. She expressed that as long as I was taking all the necessary precautions, I should have little to worry about. We’re going to take it one day at a time.) 

At the time I had also developed a superficial blood clot near a varicose vein behind my knee. I’ve had bad varicose veins for years, well before I got pregnant, so this was not super surprising to me, but because of the location, it was incredibly painful. Because of my bleeding issues, she did not recommend blood thinners unless it got worse, so I’ve been sticking with warm compresses and trying gentle walks to try to break it down. It seems to be working.

I also continued to have residual black/brown spotting (and occasionally it’s more of a flow with a reddish tint) and I know that at any time it could all escalate again. I’ve heard that in the majority of cases, subchorionic hematoma/hemorrhages resolve themselves (either by bleeding out or reabsorbing into the body) by week 20. We pray that is the case for us, but we’ve also heard stories of women who had bleeding throughout their entire pregnancy. Their babies were totally fine, but what a constant nightmare of fear and wondering!

Only time will tell what our situation is going to look like, so we are trying to take it all as it comes, day by day. Again, we are so incredibly thankful for our awesome doctor and all the amazing healthcare people we’ve encountered who have helped us feel more comfortable on this difficult road. And we are always so thankful for the love and prayers from our family and friends. So, thank you!

Answers?

With intense relief at having seen our baby’s heart beating, we quickly shared the news (and first pictures of our baby!) with our parents (who had been worried sick and praying relentlessly with us) and decided to tell our siblings as well. Ultimately, we knew that whichever way this all went for us, we would need all of their support no matter what.

Shortly after sharing the good and relieving news of finding our baby’s heartbeat, we received the rest of the less assuring results from the ultrasound. I was told that I had a possible partial septate uterus. (A septate uterus is a uterine deformity that happens during fetal development. The uterus is divided in some degree by a membrane called a septum. Some are separated almost completely, but mine was just partial.) The scan showed that the gestational sac had implanted on the left side of the uterus, and there was a subchorionic hemorrhage (active bleeding) on the right side.

This was a lot of new information to digest and we approached our doctor’s visit two days later hoping for an explanation and some answers. We sort of got those things.

It was all found to be confusing that the septate had not appeared as a result in any previous tests. In October of 2017, I had a hysterosalpingography (HSG) performed, where the doctor was able to check for uterine abnormalities and to see if my Fallopian tubes were clear or not. It’s a common procedure for women who have had difficulties trying to conceive. It was a more invasive and painful experience for me than I had expected, but my doctor had informed me (in a non-creepy way) that my uterus looked beautiful and she was able to clear the bit of blockage in my tubes. She hadn’t noticed anything abnormal in my uterus at that time, or during a laparoscopy to remove endometriosis a few months later. 

It wasn’t until an ultrasound looking for cysts and fibroids in December 2018 that she noticed I had a slight bicornuate (or heart-shaped) uterus. She had said that it shouldn’t make it more difficult to conceive, but that it could potentially cause complications in pregnancy, and would need to be monitored. At the time, I wrote it off, because getting pregnant was the current issue. Complications could come later.

Fast forward to later when complications did in fact come: my new doctor explained that septate uteri can be misdiagnosed as bicornuate, but she definitely saw a small, partial septate that was causing bleeding and could threaten the entire pregnancy. She said that basically the left side of my uterus was growing a baby and the right side was bleeding like I was having a period. We were told that the bleeding would likely stop—either by bleeding out or being reabsorbed into my body. 

For the time being, the bleeding itself was not harming the baby. The real threat was that as the baby continued to grow and the pregnancy progressed, my uterus may not have the strength (because of the septate) to allow the baby to grow as it needed to, which could lead to miscarriage, low birth weight, preterm labor, or bleeding complications after delivery. However, the doctor assured us that as long as the baby grew normally, it could even out the sagging caused by the septate and everything could progress normally from there on out. 

A septate uterus can easily be fixed with a small surgery, but obviously not once I was already pregnant. All we could do at the time was wait and see what happened. My doctor ordered weekly ultrasounds to monitor the baby, the hemorrhage, and the growth of my uterus. She declared me high-risk, referred us to a perinatal specialist, and put me on work restrictions.

We left feeling overwhelmed by the new information, but slightly better for at least having a sense of what was going on. We accepted that day that nothing about our pregnancy journey was likely going to be normal or easy or what we had long expected. We had hope that all would turn out just fine and come September 1ish we would get to me our healthy baby, but we knew that no matter what happened, we would be okay.

In the Beginning

It was Christmas Eve, and I was home from work early, having a meltdown. I was getting ready for our evening festivities, when I discovered a small amount of pink spotting. 

Once again, my hopes and dreams of a baby were dashed by the imminent arrival of my period. For the last two weeks I had been wondering if I was pregnant, and hoping desperately that I was. I was nothing but irritable and crabby (though between losing my grandmother and dealing with the holidays while working in retail with new, inexperienced coworkers, some level of irritability was inevitable), but this was like PMS on steroids. I’d also been having cramps and wicked breast tenderness off and on for at least a week, but that was fairly normal for me.

So when that bit of spotting appeared, I dreaded it more intensely for several reasons: 

1.  Christmas is about celebrating a baby, and I was beginning to doubt that God wanted me to have a baby. I never doubted that He could give me one, but I had begun to doubt that He would.
2. With the loss of my grandma so fresh, I felt like I couldn’t take anymore disappointment this Christmas.
3. If my level of irritability and rage over the last two weeks wasn’t related to pregnancy, it meant that I was likely certifiably crazy and should have my head examined.

Eventually I pulled myself together and we had an enjoyable Christmas Eve despite our silent disappointment. During Mass I felt very close to my grandma, and felt a deep sense of peace, and an oddly renewed sense of hope. I went from thinking there was a 1% chance I was pregnant to a 2% chance, which may not seem like a lot, but trust me, was significant. The evening ended on a high note, with several unexpected but great gifts, and a lot of laughter.

Christmas morning I decided to quietly take a pregnancy test. My period still hadn’t come on full force, and I didn’t want to waste the holiday away wondering if it would come or not.

Almost immediately, the single line became a plus sign. Freaking out, I set the test on the side of the sink and went and sat on the couch for the allotted three minutes. You know, in case it decided to change its mind. 

Shaking, I got up after three minutes to find that no, in fact, the test had NOT changed its mind. I was pregnant. It said so. That holy little plus sign. The perfect Christmas gift. The gift I had begun to imagine I would never receive. I woke my husband up and shared the news and we embraced in disbelief. 

It all felt too good to be true. 

For years we had tried. We had done tests and I had done minor procedures and taken hormone suppositories and injections, all in an attempt to help our chances. After being referred to an infertility specialist who essentially told us he could make our babies FOR us AND THEN FREEZE THEM and then THAW them before INJECTING them into me, where they would *maybe* survive, we knew more than ever with a passionate conviction that if we couldn’t have kids on our own, then we wouldn’t have them. 

We decided to take a breather from all things fertility. And a few months later, there we were: pregnant.
             

Having been through “infertility” (I hesitate to put us in that category because, honestly, I hate that word. A lot of “infertile” people are actually fertile, it’s just not as quick and easy for them to get pregnant, e.g. us. But the emotions and struggles we experienced over almost three years of trying to conceive were, I believe, universal in the “infertility” world.), I always hated to hear people say, “If you just relax and stop trying, it will happen.” Which I hated and thought was stupid. But then we stopped “trying” and it happened. 

Like I said earlier, it seemed too good to be true. I could hardly believe it. As fun as it would have been to break the news to family on Christmas, I still had a nagging feeling that any day now I could still get my period and it would all be over, so we decided to wait at least until after our first doctor’s appointment.

I had been told that with my low progesterone and endometriosis and whatnot, I was at a higher risk for miscarriage. My more holistic NaPro doctor who had so often prescribed me progesterone and had my blood drawn regularly to check my levels had coincidentally taken a year of leave (which was why we ended up at the dreaded fertility specialist in the first place), and I was left with a more modern OB. I decided to trust, even as the anxiety crept in. 

All these years, we’d known it was all part of God’s timing. Even when things had seemed perfect in our minds, like they should totally work out, God had other plans. We trusted Him with this as well.

When I hadn’t gotten my period a week later and began to have some intense food aversions, I let it sink in. I’m really pregnant. This is really happening. There’s a little person in there.

Two days later, I started spotting.