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We were so lucky that our sweet boy only needed to be in the special care unit for a little over a week. On Friday the week after he was born, we were given the all clear to head home.

It was a huge relief, because we were way over being in the hospital. The only reason he had stayed as long as he did was that he was struggling to keep up his own body temperature. He had gained back almost all his weight from birth, and was only one ounce less when we left the hospital.

We knew it was a miracle he was doing so well. The special care nurses kept saying that he was a little guy acting like a big boy. The worst had been the two days they had him on the special lights to try and lower his bilirubin levels (to fend off jaundice). He looked like a super cute glow worm/rockstar in the little sunglasses they had made for him. But we weren’t allowed to hold him much. 

It broke my heart to see him hooked up to all the monitors and off-limits. It was difficult to find time to hold him or do skin-to-skin between him being in there and the fact that I was pumping around the clock.

In the early days after my own discharge, which happened on the Monday after he was born, the “weepies” as I called them had set in as my hormones shifted. I was perpetually crying at every little thing. It became even more difficult when my husband had to return to work (it made more sense for him to take extra time off work after we got home. At the hospital our boy was being taken excellent care of whether or not we were there.) and I was left alone in my hospital room without either of my boys for the first time. 

On the first day of being there alone, the doctors came in and talked to me about the possibility of taking our little guy home in a matter of days, which left me overwhelmed by the enormity of caring for him. I hadn’t been able to breastfeed him much, which had been our plan. How would I manage to figure that out at home alone? Would we have to give him formula too? Would he be able to keep his temperature up? How would I know if he was okay without being able to see his vitals at all times? 

Thankfully the nurses could see the overwhelm in my face and made sure to reassure me that they would not send him home until we were all sure he would be taken good care of. Those nurses were incredible, taking such good care of our boy, but also teaching us so much about the special care that a preterm baby required. They made sure we understood the feeding technique with a bottle, and they, along with the lactation consultants, assisted me in becoming more comfortable with breastfeeding (something I didn’t realize about preterm babies is that breastfeeding can easily wear them out. It’s something they have to work up to, hence my need to pump around the clock to keep my supply up. I will be writing a whole post in the future about that learning experience!). They encouraged my husband and I to help change our little guy’s diapers and clothes and be as involved as possible in his care.

My emotions kept my brain swirling with anxieties and doubts about my abilities to care for my baby. At first I was just immensely self-conscious by how little I knew about preterm baby care. I was overthinking things and afraid to become involved. I quickly realized that I needed to get over myself and accept with humility that I was new at this and I would be clumsy at first, but the more I practiced and the more I learned, the better and more confidently I would be able to take care of my baby at home. I eventually decided to bring my pump into our baby’s room during the day so I could spend most of the day in there, going back to my room only to eat and sleep. That helped me spend more time with him, and also learn more and gain more confidence in my ability to care for him. 

At one point I worried that he wouldn’t know I was his mother because of how little we’d been able to bond and all the wonderful nurses who had seemed to care for him better than I could. My husband gently made sure I knew how ridiculous that thought was. Still, I had to remind myself frequently that though I was not an expert at feeding him or changing him or bathing him, I was an expert at loving him. Yes, I would inevitably make mistakes while trying to do what was best for him, but I would always love the crap out of him. And even though the nurses were all enamored by his cuteness and genuinely cared for his well being, they couldn’t and wouldn’t ever love him like I do.

By the time the day came to take him home, we were so ready. Ready to be free of the hospital. Ready to start our new chapter as a family of three. We were nervous like any new parents, but so ready.

As my husband went to pull the car around, the nurse who had accompanied us out asked, “So will we be seeing you all again in another year or two?” It took me a minute to realize she was referring to us having another kid. I laughed and answered, “We’ll see. We need to figure out what went wrong this time and see what we can do to prevent it from happening again.”

When we were all safely in the car and heading home, my husband in the driver’s seat, our baby boy in the middle seat sleeping soundly as if he were made for a car seat, and me next to him on the passenger side, I relayed the interaction with the nurse.

My husband immediately replied, “Nothing went wrong! Everything that happened brought us this perfect kid and we wouldn’t trade that for anything, right?” He was right, and the beauty of the moment made me tear up as I gazed at the face of our perfect, sleeping miracle.

When I saw the doctor this week for my two-week follow-up, we gained some more insight into what caused my complications. During my C-section, I remember being on the table and hearing my doctor asking the surgeon if she could take a picture of my uterus, which was clearly bicornuate, or heart-shaped. (She shared it with us later and it looked like a creepy valentine.) I heard them examining the placenta and discussing my innards, but at the moment I was way too preoccupied with the little life that had been living in there for the last 8 months. I knew she would fill us in with details later.

Fill us in she did. We had expected that I had a septum in my uterus (an extra piece of muscle separating my uterus into two sides) that could be removed simply in an outpatient procedure to help prevent future miscarriage and possible complications. As it turns out, there was no septum, just a clearly bicornuate uterus, which means two clearly separate horns, or cavities. That was why very early on when I started bleeding, the two sides appeared to be functioning independently of each other—our little boy was implanted and growing on the left, and the lining on the right was shedding almost like a normal period as if I wasn’t pregnant.

That initial bleed led to the subsequent hematomas, the hematomas led to the placental abruption, the abruption led to the premature rupturing of my water. The doctor told me that there was no surgery, no interventions that could be done to prevent it all happening again. Any subsequent pregnancies of mine would be high risk. Everything could happen like it did this time, or it could be completely fine with no complications, or it could be way worse and end in greater complications or even a loss. She even told me something she didn’t want to tell me before—when she initially reached out to MFM (maternal fetal medicine, the specialists who monitor high risk pregnancies) they told her straight up that I would have a loss in the second trimester.

That information hit heavily. I looked at our baby boy and said with more certainty than ever before, “So he really is a true miracle.” It’s been a lot to let sink in, and I think we’re still processing it, but for now we are even more incredibly grateful for our sweet boy and even more thoroughly enjoying our time with him. We are even more convinced that all of the prayers and support of all of you who have shared this journey with us are what carried us as far as we did and brought our sweet boy home safely!  THANK YOU!

It’s still a lot to take in, and I don’t think we’ll really fully process it until we reach a point of wanting to try for another baby. It will be something that will require a whole lot of thought, prayer, and consideration with the knowledge we have now of how things could possibly turn out. We are nowhere near that point right now though. For now, we are incredibly relieved that I am no longer pregnant, and that our baby is in our arms and no longer in my belly.

Our little miracle is home and adjusting well to his new life here as he grows before our very eyes (he gained half a pound in his first four days at home!) and I am slowly adjusting to life outside a hospital again. In the first 24 hours I was afraid to leave him alone in case he suddenly stopped breathing (again, I was used to having him monitored constantly!), and every time I went to leave the bedroom, I reached to put my mask on my face before remembering that I was home and I didn’t need to. #pandemiclife

It’s all a little surreal how it all turned out. Because my emotions are still somewhat unstable, I’m trying not to think about it all too much right now, and instead focusing on our baby boy and taking in each beautiful day with him.

Constant Vigilance

  The day after our doctor’s appointment, we received results from my initial blood work. My progesterone levels were at 10.9, and my doctor had said they should be at least at 11. Again, since it had been drilled into me in the past from my previous doctor that my low progesterone could potentially cause miscarriage, I contacted my doctor.

Because I was high risk, she had given me her cell phone number so I could contact her at any time with questions or issues. Even though it was a Saturday, I decided to text her and ask about putting me on progesterone ASAP. She was not as familiar with the practice as my previous doctor, but she’s open-minded and loves to learn things, so she told me she would look into it. After spending her Saturday afternoon reading up on it and reaching out to more experienced OBs, she came up with a prescription for me. She admitted that the information she found did not reveal convincing evidence that it would help, but she was confident that it certainly wouldn’t hurt.

[I was so glad that I took that pro-active step, and that my doctor was so willing to look into a treatment option that she was not familiar with. I knew that she wouldn’t prescribe it to me if she truly didn’t believe in it, which I also respected. I’ve heard so many stories about women being talked down to by their doctors, or written off for various concerns. I am here to tell you that good doctors who care about your health do exist, and they are worth searching for. We should never be afraid to bring up a concern or ask a question that might seem stupid. If your doctor makes you feel uncomfortable, talks down to you, or never seems to really hear what you have to say, find another one. You deserve to be treated well and fairly. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.]

So we went along, me feeling relieved that though I couldn’t do much for my baby other than stay alive and attempt to stay healthy, I was able to advocate for myself and take the progesterone that had at least a chance of assisting in maintaining my pregnancy. We began our weekly ultrasounds, and every time, my anxiety would build up like crazy. I had moments of peace, and moments of going out of my mind with worry that we would show up to our next ultrasound and there would be no heart beat. Then I would pray and find some peace and a giddiness that frightened me. Hello, mood swings.

Despite my worries, the ultrasounds continued to show that our baby was growing at exactly the rate it should be. The heart beat was always strong, and by week 8 (week 6 was when the bleeding had begun) the hemorrhage had completely disappeared. It was also encouraging and very cool to see our baby’s progress week by week. We knew that our situation wasn’t ideal, but we chose to look at the bright side that we got to sneak a peek at our little one so often.

Now, even though the hemorrhage had cleared up, and I hadn’t had any bright red blood since that scary week 6, I had some sort of dark red, brown, or black spotting or discharge every single day. It was always worse when I was at work (just from moving around so much and being on my feet constantly) and in the days following an ultrasound. (Up to about week 11 or 12, most ultrasounds are transvaginal, which is invasive and irritates the cervix, causing discharge like this to be somewhat normal, or at least not a cause for alarm.)

I learned that some bleeding in the first 12 weeks occurs in about 20% of pregnancies. There are different types of bleeding to look out for. Bright red bleeding means it’s fresh, which is often more concerning. The dark red/brown/black stuff that I experienced was believed to be old blood working its way out of my system. Not pleasant, but not worrisome. I was told to keep an eye out for bright red blood, and that if bleeding was heavy enough to fill two pads in an hour, or if I passed anything resembling actual tissue, I would need to call the doctor immediately or get to the ER. 

I was constantly vigilant, over-analyzing everything every time I went to the bathroom (which was many times a day), and anxiously awaiting our visit with the perinatal specialist, which occurred on week 10. My husband was set to fly out for a business trip that afternoon, and we had already agreed that if the news was concerning in any way, that he would stay back from his trip. At the time, I had only had a brief moment of red spotting about ten days before, but it had followed an ultrasound, so I wasn’t overly concerned about it.

The appointment went really well. So well, in fact, that the doctor told us she didn’t believe that I had a septate uterus after all, that it was just bicornuate, which was less concerning, and that she thought we were out of the woods and our risk was minimal. Because of my bicornuate uterus, they would continue ultrasounds every four weeks or so. 

We left the office feeling amazingly relieved and so happy. I didn’t want my husband to go on his trip so we could revel in our relief, but we both knew it would be good for him to go. He got on a plane that afternoon, and we shared the good news with our families, feeling like finally we were ready to experience a “normal” pregnancy. 

The next day, when I was at work and my husband was almost 1,000 miles away, I started having another light flow of bright red blood.

A Flicker of Hope

One of the things that I was weirdly excited about for pregnancy was not having my period for nine months. For nine glorious months, even while my body did other wild, unspeakable things to cause me aches and pains and grief, I would not have to deal with the painful, heavy periods that endometriosis has graced me with over the years.

Not only that, but when you’re trying to conceive, periods take on a whole new level of evil. They are the physical death of all your hopes and dreams being flushed down the toilet, month after month. Maybe that sounds dramatic, but hormones make everything feel dramatic.

Perhaps because of this crazed enthusiasm for no periods during pregnancy, fate hath dealt me an ironic blow. Like I said in my last post, a little over a week after that beautiful positive pregnancy test, I started having more pink spotting. I knew that this could be normal, so though I had my moments of panic (including one where I took another pregnancy test before realizing that you can still get a positive result up to weeks after miscarrying), I had a deep peace about it all. After all, unexplained spotting between cycles was not exactly unusual for me.

After a few days of spotting, I was at work in the early morning, going about my business serving customers coffee, when I began to feel like I was peeing my pants a little bit. Attempting to remain professional, I rushed off to the bathroom as soon as I could, only to discover bright red blood in my panty liner. Thankfully, I had a pad handy just in case so I used that and returned to work like nothing was wrong, though I texted my husband who I knew was up and getting ready to come into work (thankfully we work in the same place). He told me that he would be there soon and that we should call the doctor as soon as they opened. 

I could feel the bleeding continuing and getting heavier, like a steady gush. I tried to maintain my cheerful Monday morning face for my customers and very new coworker until my man arrived. We went to his office where I cried and we agreed that we should both leave work in order to handle this. I called my boss and we left.

As we made our way home, I called my mom crying. She cried too and assured me that it could be nothing, and that she would be praying hard. I hated more than anything that that was how my parents had to find out.

It took awhile to get a call through to the doctor and the earliest they were able to get us in was late that afternoon. The bleeding had stopped after about an hour or two, so we felt relieved by that, but it was a miserable day sitting around waiting and wondering what was going on.  Fearing that this was perhaps the beginning of the end.

My personal doctor was out that day, so we saw a doctor we were unfamiliar with. She was very kind and had been through infertility and miscarriage herself, so she understood a little of what we were experiencing. She did an ultrasound and we saw the gestational sac and what looked like a little peanut—our baby! She seemed confused by the positioning of it, as it had implanted far up in the left corner of my uterus. She said my cervix was closed though, and there was no sign of an active miscarriage or bleeding. 

They drew some blood for hormone levels, and we left feeling cautiously optimistic about our first scheduled appointment with my actual doctor on Friday, where we hoped we might have some more answers. For the time being though, we had seen our little peanut, and that gave us the strength to continue hoping.

Two days later, I received a call from the doctor explaining that my HCG levels had come back relatively high, so she thought we should have seen more on the ultrasound. She ordered us to get an ultrasound from a tech that day, stating that she believed either I was miscarrying after all, or it was an ectopic pregnancy (when the baby implants outside the uterus, often in a Fallopian tube. In these situations, the pregnancy is not viable, and can threaten the life of the mother if left undetected and untreated). 

With this news combined with the fact that I had had another similar bleeding episode again the day before, we were suddenly feeling very defeated. We left work and called to schedule the ultrasound. For two hours we sat around and prayed and didn’t talk, both experiencing the fear and uncertainty in our own ways.

When we arrived at the tech’s office, we felt quickly at ease. It was a young woman and her trainee, and they were both friendly and caring when we explained why the doctor had sent us there.

As she began the ultrasound, the tech said, “This here is the gestational sac, and it’s in the uterus, so that’s good” —so we knew it was not ectopic—“and see that little flicker there? That’s your baby’s heartbeat.”

The weight of the world lifted off our shoulders and we laughed and I cried in relief. There it was—a little tiny heartbeat in our little tiny peanut. Our baby had a heartbeat. Our little flicker of hope. 

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.