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. 

Home

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.

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. 

It’s a...gender reveal and 22 week update!

It’s been awhile since I updated—quarantine brain + pregnancy brain = a whole new level of existential and emotional confusion on the regular.

Our ultrasounds have been cut back from once a week to every 4 weeks for the time being, which is fine with me because 1) I don’t want to be in any sort of doctor office more than I have to and 2) my husband is currently not allowed to accompany me to any ultrasounds or appointments, which I understand but I don’t like. 

That first prolonged stretch between ultrasounds was a little rough. I still feared another episode of bleeding and having to go the ER and risk getting sick. I also couldn’t feel the baby moving yet, so I randomly had meltdowns wondering if he or she was even still alive in there (despite the sure sign of my ever-growing belly!), alternating with meltdowns about my husband or me getting sick despite all of our efforts to stay safe at our jobs at a grocery store.

Thankfully, halfway between our first 4 week stretch between scans, I had a doctor’s appointment. I chose the earliest time possible so I was the first patient there that day. The doctor (who was a fill-in for my usual OB since she was distancing herself from her patients while working medical rotations at the hospital) checked for the baby’s heartbeat with the Doppler and everything sounded great, which was a huge relief.

He also reiterated that the results from the chromosome blood test we had done a couple weeks earlier were normal, and I asked if the test showed the gender. It did, so I asked him to write down the gender for us so my husband and I could find out together. With all the uncertainty going on in our pregnancy and the world, we just wanted to know without any further ado or gender-reveal fanfare.

So when I returned to the car with an envelope that read “Baby Gender” on the front, my husband put down the game of solitaire he had been playing on his phone while waiting for me, and we opened the envelope to see....

“BABY BOY!”

We were thrilled! We honestly would have been thrilled either way, but it just felt more real somehow to know that we have a son. We quickly realized that though we had discussed names a bit, we didn’t have any boy names that we had both really liked, but we had plenty of girls’ names. We spent the next few days happily distracted from the fear of illness with the task of naming our child, and by the end of the week, we had his name figured out. I won’t be sharing it here, but it’s been a huge comfort for us to call him by name. 

In the week before our next ultrasound, which would be the full anatomy scan at 21 weeks, the spotting that had been consistent my entire pregnancy finally tapered off to absolutely nothing. It was amazing. Everyone had seemed to be telling us that this type of bleeding usually cleared up by 20 weeks, and we were ecstatic that that seemed to be the case for us. I was anxious to find out if the hemorrhage was gone completely or if it would still show up on the ultrasound. I also began to feel some flutters and flops in my belly that week. For awhile I wasn’t sure if it was the baby or my wishful thinking, but it became more and more clear that there was someone moving in there!

The anatomy scan went well, though it was much longer than most scans because the tech was getting as many detailed measurements as she could. It was really disappointing that my husband couldn’t be there with me to see our baby rub his eyes and stretch out his legs, and open and close his little mouth. All of the measurements she got were perfectly in the normal range (there were a few she couldn’t get because of his position), which wasn’t really surprising given our son’s track record. 

We found out later that the subchorionic hemorrhage was still there, though much improved. The fact that I haven’t had any more bleeding or spotting is a really good sign, so hopefully by our next ultrasound, it will all be gone completely.

In the last week, our baby’s movements have become stronger and more pronounced, so even my husband can feel them. It’s so amazing and reassuring every time!

So that’s where we are here at 22 weeks. It feels nice to be past the halfway point, but it also feels like we should be much further along... that’s probably true of every pregnancy, though, and double for every pregnancy that happens during quarantine!

Truly, nothing about this pregnancy has been what we expected, but we are so thankful for it and for every minute of our precious son’s precious life.  

Finding Joy in the Uncertainty

  We had an ultrasound last week. The reminder call informed me that I was allowed one visitor, and no children. A few hours later, they called to tell me I wasn’t allowed to have any visitors.

Knowing that this was all precautionary measure during these crazy pandemic times, I was annoyed but knew that it wouldn’t be a huge deal. It’s not like I was going to have to give birth alone (which, IMHO, is something no one should ever have to do, even during a pandemic. Just because there’s a pandemic, doesn’t mean that life is going to stop coming into the world. Again, I understand the concerns and precautionary measures and yada yada, but no one should have to go through that alone. End rant.). Still, I was irked because I don’t see my husband as a visitor. He is the father of my child and has every right to be there in that room that I do. 

When we arrived, the sign outside the building with the many offices said that each patient was allowed one visitor, so we both entered the building. The door to the office I would be going into reiterated that NO visitors were allowed. Still, it seemed perfectly allowable that he would be able to wait with me. 

Or so we thought until a receptionist stuck her head out and quite rudely said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the building NOW.” Which honestly seemed uncalled for, especially given the contradictory signs. So I waited alone, and I went in alone. The ultrasound tech asked if I wanted to find out the gender that day and I said, still slightly salty, “No, I’d really rather wait and find out when my husband can be here with me.”

As it turned out, the baby was also salty about their dad getting kicked out, because he/she was lounging upside down with their back to us, as if to say, “I’ll show you social distancing!” I was weirdly proud.

Everything showed up fairly normal as far as I was told. The hematoma was still there, but had shifted from a 4 cm clot to a 6 cm line. I hoped that meant it was getting ready to be reabsorbed into my body. But the baby’s heartbeat was good as always, and seemed to be growing normally, though we couldn’t see much except the very defined spine and a foot.

They told me everything looked stable, and that I should contact the doctor if I had any more bleeding, otherwise they would see me in four weeks for the anatomy scan.

It wasn’t until later that evening after watching the news and worrying about the health and safety of the whole world that the fear began to sink in. I thought back to the comment that everything looked “stable.” As in, at any moment, everything could suddenly not be stable. The hemorrhage was still there. My uterus is still a mess. At any moment, all could be lost.

I couldn’t help spiraling into the dark hole that this subchorionic hemorrhage is like a period from hell—again, it’s funny to me now that I thought pregnancy would be a vacation from my period. Haha.

With a subchorionic hemorrhage, you just never know what kind of bleeding you will have and when. At least for me, there is ALWAYS some level of it—often it’s just spotting or a very light flow. 

But then there are times when it comes heavily out of nowhere.  One minute you’re trying to decide what to eat for dinner, the next minute, your pants are soaking wet. The gushes come and you wait and wonder:  is it just going to gush for a little bit and then taper off? When will it stop? Is this the end of it all? Sometimes it does stop or slow down relatively quickly, and sometimes it keeps going until there is no question that we should go to the ER because the health of both the baby and me is at risk.

And oftentimes it’s just a random little gush here and there. But every time, you wonder:  is this the beginning of more? Is this normal? What is normal?

It’s hard to see the beauty of growing another life. It’s hard to even find real joy amid the anxiety and uncertainty.

I shared my fears with my husband and he understood but also helped me to refocus on the gift, the gratitude, the hope we have in front of us.

I felt better and turned to do my Bible study for the day. The verse that stuck out to me was from Luke 9:23, “If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.”

Daily. Every single day. As we’ve learned during this pregnancy journey, it’s vital to take each day as it comes, to not get too ahead of ourselves, to celebrate the little victories and be grateful for each moment. It was a profoundly helpful moment for me to remember this daily surrender to the cross. Every day, I must re-take up this cross of high-risk pregnancy during a pandemic. Every day, I must take up these worries and fears and uncertainties and surrender all my expectations by embracing my situation and uniting my suffering to Jesus. And when I am too weak to carry them alongside Jesus—which I always am unless by a gift of grace—I simply surrender, express my desire to follow Him, and He picks us both up—my cross and me.

Remembering to practice this in the morning daily has helped immensely. I find that I am able to be more grateful and joyful throughout the day, rather than going through my days anxiously and then merely sighing a prayer of relieved thanks as I sink into bed.

It has definitely helped as I’ve gone back to work this past week. I only went a few days—my original plans to return as a grocery cashier were thankfully shot down by my doctor, who recommended I try to find a more isolated position with limited interactions. I’ve eased back in by doing behind the scenes work where I work alone and only occasionally have to be in any sort of close contact with others. This work situation alleviates a lot of my anxiety about working in a grocery store during a pandemic, and my renewed spiritual practice of picking up my cross daily has helped even more for me to find the beauty and joy amid the uncertainty.

I continue to be thankful for this little life, for the fact that I have work to go to these days, and again for the continued love and support from our family and friends. Know that I am here praying for the health and safety of you all during these crazy times!

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!