TW: pregnancy loss and eating disorders and TMI if you’re not comfortable with female bodies
I have been debating for a few months whether or not I should write on the topic of body image and pregnancy, since I didn’t have a full-term pregnancy and my view is different from others. But a few weeks ago, I was on a support group with a fellow loss mom who lamented that her stomach was slowly getting smaller post-loss, whereas she watched other future moms as they continued to get bigger. I realized that while pregnancy and body image are intimately linked, so are pregnancy loss and body image. I can speak from both sides, the before, and the after.
I never understood people who said pregnant bodies were beautiful. I was never the type to look in awe at someone with a baby bump. Honestly, to me they looked uncomfortable. When I started to seriously think about getting pregnant, the thought of my body changing outside of my control was terrifying. For many years I struggled with disordered eating, but for about ten years, I’ve felt good in my own skin and I’ve been a staunch proponent of the body positivity/intuitive eating movement. I enjoy food and I don’t want to count calories. I also enjoy movement and I don’t want to count workouts. I like sweets, and I like lifting weights. I try to balance everything. Since I knew that being pregnant could cause me to change both my eating habits and my movement habits after I was finally in a good place with both, I was very scared.
After we told my parents I was pregnant, I remember talking to my dad on the phone and he asked me if I would take weekly “bump” pictures comparing the baby to a fruit or whatever weird thing the apps say your fetus is the size of (a peanut!). I remember exactly what corner of the sidewalk I was on when I started laughing hysterically. I said, “Daddy have you ever met me!?” I would never do that. The thought of taking maternity photos where I would be capturing my body in its largest and uncontrolled form seemed preposterous to me. Why would I ever want those pictures? I distinctly remember around 15 weeks when my blood pressure was on the cusp of normal and my doctor suggested she may want to induce me at 37-38 weeks “to be safe,” I was so excited because it meant I wouldn’t be so big and uncomfortable.
But let’s rewind. During pregnancy, everyone’s body reacts differently and there are a million things strangers will say about it. Pregnancy is one of the times society has decided that it’s ok to comment publicly about a woman’s shape to her face. Some people will decide you are having a boy or girl depending on if you’re “carrying high or low.” Some say you “pop earlier” if you eat certain foods, or do certain things, or who even knows. Everyone pretty much agrees that you don’t start to show until later if it is your first pregnancy. In my case, I am not a small person. I am 5’11” and I used to describe my body type on my OKCupid profile as “athletic.” Long legs, big city, remember?
More like, long legs, no big belly. Around 12 weeks, I started to get nervous. Why didn’t I have any bump yet? Not that I wanted to have a changing body, but shouldn’t I see something? I started to be a little more conscious of the foods I was eating. After years of “only eating when I was hungry” I started to think about whether or not I was hungry and why. People talk about pregnant women “eating for 2” or being ravenous during their second trimester. I never was. I was just eating the amount I normally ate. I started asking friends for protein shake recommendations so I could make sure I was consuming enough protein, but basically every protein powder said to ask your doctor before consuming it if you’re pregnant, so I nixed that plan.
For my 16-week anatomy scan, I went to a different ultrasound facility because most of them were closed. I happened to be 16 weeks during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Not ideal. My appointment was at 8:30 am. I hadn’t been that hungry, but I figured I should eat something, so I had half of a protein bar in the cab on the way there. Most of the scan went well, but the tech had some issues getting some of the pictures, because she said our baby was staying in the same position, and she needed her to move into a different position. She said sometimes this happens, and I might have to come back the next day. But then she asked me to stand up and walk around the office and she asked what I had eaten that morning. I told the truth (half a protein bar), and she started scolding me. She said, “your baby needs nutrients and you need to feed it what it needs. You need to think about your baby and not you.” I was taken aback. It wasn’t even 9 am two days after Christmas. I had basically rolled out of bed and hopped in a cab. I wanted to do what was best for my baby, but I didn’t want to gorge myself when I wasn’t hungry.
Two weeks later, I had a regular appointment with my OB, and I asked my doctor about it. I explained to her that I didn’t want to know what I weighed because I try not to focus on the number, but that I was yelled at by the ultrasound tech, and I wanted to make sure I was gaining “enough” weight to have a healthy baby. Of course, I ended up in tears. I cry every single time I see my OB now, but at the time, I think this was my first time crying in front of her. My doctor apologized profusely for the ultrasound tech and said she was out of line and really should not have said that to me and shouldn’t talk about what to eat. My doctor said I was gaining exactly what I should be for where I was in the pregnancy, and that I should continue to listen to my body about hunger cues. I noticed after that appointment that she added “history of disordered eating” to my chart.
At that same appointment, my doctor checked on our baby and mentioned that due to the placement of the placenta, I probably wouldn’t feel movement until much later in the pregnancy, but not to worry, everything looked perfect. It seemed hard to believe that I was 18 weeks pregnant but looked exactly the same. Throughout the winter I wore the same jeans without a problem. At 20 weeks, we had another anatomy scan, and again, everything looked great, but I still had no visible bump. At 23 weeks, I finally had a tiny visible bump. I noticed it in the mirror when I was just in underwear, but in clothes, it was hard to see. I was going to my friend’s wedding in Florida, so I bought a new dress that would fit well. For the day and night before, I wore my regular clothes, which still fit. I spent the day before the wedding at the pool with my best friend, and she commented about how she couldn’t believe how little I still was. My mom asked me if I bought a maternity swimsuit and I laughed. I just looked like I maybe ate unlimited breadsticks at the Olive Garden.
The next week, at a 24-week growth scan, everything was trending well, our girl looked good, and I still looked… barely pregnant. I was secretly thrilled. As long as our baby looked good, I was totally fine with a baby on the smaller side, easier birth, right? Less stretch marks! But it was still strange. Nobody who walked by me on the street would know I was pregnant, my own friends couldn’t really tell. I was still working out like usual, going to Orangetheory 4 days a week, doing most of the same exercises with the exception of some core work. I kept my ultrasound photos on the fridge as a reminder since there weren’t many external ones.
When I was checked into the hospital the next week, they had a mandatory protocol that they needed to have a fetal heartrate monitor strapped on to me 24 hours a day to monitor the baby. For me, they had trouble getting the monitor to stay in the right place because I barely had any bump. They Macgyvered all sorts of things to try and keep it in place. One nurse folded up a paper towel and put it under one side so the monitor was tilted down. Some nurses were better than others. Every 12 hours during a shift change, one nurse would show the next one what they had come up with to help it stay. But if I shifted even an inch, the monitor would slide or slip and the alarm would go off. I had to lay completely still for days. I had to alert a nurse every time I was going to go to the bathroom because I knew it would trip up the monitor. Reaching for my water cup would move it. The nurses kept apologizing and saying it was just because I wasn’t that far along, so it was difficult to keep in place. Of course, I knew I wasn’t that far along, but having that constant 24-hour reminder, while also being told I needed to deliver my baby within 24 hours was a complete mindf*ck. I hated my body, both the size of it, and the fact that it was failing me from the inside. The two were intimately intertwined.
Now, when I see people on the street with baby bumps, I immediately think, “if they had the baby RIGHT NOW, the baby would probably survive.” The exact bumps I didn’t want, and didn’t think were beautiful, are now the one thing I wish I had. Sure maybe they are 31, 32, 33 weeks, but that’s all I dreamed of, a few more weeks. I see that bump and I think, “survival.” I think, “If only I ever had that.” It’s wild to be so close to the loss that I can remember how I felt before about being that size, but I can also see how much my entire mindset has changed.
The one thing that definitely changed throughout my pregnancy was my boobs. My first indication that I was pregnant was that they were changing. As someone who grew up like Judy Blume, doing the “I must increase my bust” chants, they were finally increasing. I thought it would make me happy, but it made me uncomfortable. I remember one time saying to my friend on the treadmill next to me that my boobs were distracting me! I wasn’t used to even noticing my chest, and all of a sudden, they were right in my face. But then, as quickly as they were new and exciting, they were terrifying. Post pregnancy, I was told that my body would likely start producing milk because my body didn’t know my baby was dead, my body only knew that I had a baby. I was constantly terrified. My body had already completely disappointed me, and now there was this. I felt like everything that was contained inside my skin was broken. My doctor (and the internet) said that the only thing I could do to prevent this from happening was wear my TIGHTEST sports bra, 24 hours a day, and basically bind my chest. I scoured google for how long I would have to do this, but every website said something different. To be safe, I decided on a month. 30 days of wearing the tightest sports bra I owned. I feared warm water, too, another thing the internet warned about. I took cold showers and barely let any water get on the front of my body. I went to sleep praying I wouldn’t wake up with a wet shirt. Every night that first week my sheets were soaked, but it was “just” post-partum hormonal sweating. My body continued to mock me and my childless arms and womb.
And then, after that month of obsessive sports bra wearing, I finally took it off and my boobs looked… the same. Normal. Just like they had “before.”
Did I make it all up? Was I ever really pregnant? How could I wake up with no baby, to a dead silent house (pun intended), and yet I looked exactly the same. I felt like I had lived 100 lives. I felt like I didn’t even know the woman I was the year before, and yet I wore the exact same clothes. I fit into everything. My body failed me over and over and over again, and yet, the mirror said it was the same body. I was the same person.
I’ve always loved to work out, and one of the hardest parts of post-partum with no baby was the bar on exercise. During those first few weeks, I went on hours and hours and hours of walks just to get out of the house and fill the time. I don’t remember them, really, I would just move aimlessly. I couldn’t tell you what I thought about. I was just trying to fill time until I could sleep again. Not being allowed to lift weights, or run, or do anything active like I was used to made me feel even worse. How was it fair that I was not allowed to do the things I liked, and the things that brought me joy, but I also didn’t get a baby? When I finally was allowed to go to the gym again, I remember a friend of mine saying I looked thin. I said “thanks, I lost a baby worth of weight.” He already knew that, of course, but it seemed like the only thing to say. I wasn’t happy I was thin, I was devastated. For the first time in my life, I just wished I was bigger. For the people who didn’t know I had been pregnant, I probably just looked normal. Even for the people who did know, I looked normal. This was the strangest part.
Throughout my entire pregnancy I probably gained 4 pounds. By the day after the hospital, I had lost those 4 plus an extra 5. Some of that was probably from not being allowed to eat for 5 days. Some was from muscle deterioration. Some was from my baby being gone. Some was from blood loss and surgery. None of the lost weight was “good.” Even two weeks ago (7 months post-loss) I went to the doctor the day after going to multiple 10 course tasting menus in Peru, and she asked me if I had lost weight. I told her I didn’t know, because I don’t weigh myself, and she said I looked like I had. Never in my life had a doctor said that to me before, and for SURE never before had it been said with the unspoken words of “are you ok? You don’t look ok.”
Clearly, I’m not ok. I also don’t think I lost weight. But I certainly look sad. Sometimes I think the circles under my eyes and the hollows of my cheeks are simply physical manifestations of my brain. I look in the mirror and I don’t see “thin,” I see “sad.” I see the indents in my collar bones, and where I used to think “oh!” I now think “oh, right, dead baby.” I wish I saw my tired eyes I thought “new mom, no sleep.” But instead I see, “mom of a dead baby, nightmares.”
When I look at my body now, I see nothing but a container. I don’t think anything of it at all. The shape of my body is the least interesting thing about me. I realize now more than ever that the size doesn’t matter. It can look one way, and completely rebel against me. I was at Orangetheory feeling 100% fine, and 4 hours later I was in the hospital feeling 100% fine and they were saying I was going to die. I can look like a supermodel and my body can still try to kill me if it gets pregnant again. I don’t necessarily hate my body, I just am completely disassociated from it.
However, I have a new added fear that people might think I’m pregnant. Most girls always fear this, the “are they or aren’t they?” like Rihanna at the Superbowl. But now, there’s the added issue that if someone asks me, I know I will spontaneously burst into tears. I am especially nervous because I know it’s from a place of love, and people will act hopeful and excited for me. I’ve stopped wearing anything with an empire waist because I don’t want the speculation. There was a photo of me in a swimsuit from the summer that was at an unflattering angle and I immediately edited it. I don’t care how I look, but I don’t want to field any questions.
Back in my post about what not to say, I mention how you should not comment on a person’s body. You can see now, it’s because it’s layered. The fact that my child lived and died within my own body adds a huge layer of complication. It’s the only loss that is completely contained within another person. For men, they don’t have all of these additional complicated feelings, and that adds to the difference in grieving. While I look the same, everything about me has changed. It’s surreal.
I am not sure how this will manifest if I ever become pregnant again. Maybe I will be happy to have a big baby bump, or maybe I will be terrified of that as well, because it’ll be even one more thing I could possibly lose. Maybe I will be happy if strangers recognize me as being pregnant for the first time. Or maybe I will view it as superstitious and wear baggy shirts for fear of not wanting anyone to speak of it. I can’t predict how I will feel in the future, all I know is that it is complicated and while I wish more than anything that I had a baby, I am not looking forward to it.
