Pregnancy After Loss

Welcome to the World Little Bro!

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He’s here!!! I have an alive baby (calling him “A” for now), and he is outside of my body. It is insane. I still sometimes wake up in shock.

I have so much to say but:

  1. I have no time to write it down
  2. I’m way too tired
  3. I probably make very little sense due to #2.

I knew I owed you all an update, and I have gotten a few thinly veiled “…how are you doing??” texts because people are afraid to ask pointedly, “are you and your baby alive?”

Here are a few short updates in bullet form because sentences are hard:

  • Labor and delivery went extremely smoothly. I think that was a gift from Maliyah because she knew I couldn’t handle any extra complications. We only had one very short scare (which of course sent me spiraling and sobbing), but otherwise everything was quick and uneventful.
  • I have definitely cried far more than A has. He was born with so much hair and I keep saying I think saltwater makes it grow because the first few weeks I was basically crying on it constantly.
  • The grief of being in the same hospital with an alive baby was a LOT.  Even just being discharged should have been joyful but it was complicated. Discharge for normal patients is at 11 am. This time we left with a group of new parents with babies in car seats, and a bustling hospital lobby. It was so starkly different from being discharged at 10 pm on a Sunday night, empty handed.
  • Things are BUSY with a baby but also extremely NOT busy. It’s hard to explain but if you ask me what I did in a day, I’ll say both “nothing” and “oh my god I’m so exhausted.”
  • I do NOT know how single moms do it. Because my husband went back to work after 2 weeks and he still comes home at night, and it is a CHALLENGE. And twin moms??? Good grief. I don’t know how. I said “moms” mostly because of feeding. Which brings me to my next point.
  • Breastfeeding??? What in the literal f&^% how come no one is talking about this unique form of torture???? It hurts if you do it, it hurts if you don’t. Everything hurts. Boobs. Shoulders. Back. Neck. Brain.
  • The stress of feeding is exacerbated by the fact that A was a little small. He was fine, and didn’t need any time in the NICU, which I was extremely grateful for, but he was almost a full pound smaller than I thought he’d be. I know the growth scans can be wrong, but I was thrown off. I immediately went to, “he’s starving. He’s dying.” Spoiler alert, he was not starving. But the adjustment of my expectations, especially when I am LONG LEGS BIG CITY and he was “tiny bean,” was hard.
  • I thought that the solo assignment was the pregnancy and the “keeping an alive-baby alive” was the group project portion. Why does breastfeeding make it feel like an extension of the solo assignment? I was not prepared for that feeling of, once again, being solely responsible for keeping him alive.
  • Being a loss mom makes this extra hard. On bad days I think, “my body already killed one baby, why wouldn’t it malfunction, not produce enough food, and kill another?” On good days I think, “there’s formula and he will be fine.” And then my husband can help.
  • Last year, I became acutely aware of just how tied my physical and mental health are. The body keeps the score. This is once again a reality with sleep deprivation. A social worker I spoke to said, at some point, you need to prescribe yourself sleep. It’s like a medication, you need it, your body needs it, and lack of it is cumulative. I can literally watch how my lack of sleep impacts my blood pressure and it’s true, sleep is necessary. We’re working on it.
  • Related… blood pressure. It’s stressful to have a human rely on you! I have been back to the hospital once since discharge, 7 days post-partum. Talk about continuing re-traumatization. Again, they took my blood pressure in triage. Again, it was severe range. Again, I had an IV put in. Again, they had the blood pressure cuff going off every 15 minutes. Again, they had to put the pulse ox on my middle finger because it had lighter nail polish. And this time, I was thinking, “now if I die, A has no mom.” Cue more tears. Thankfully they seem to have everything under control now and I’m a different dosage of meds and monitoring everything extremely closely at home.
  • I had a loss mom ask me how loving A is different than loving Maliyah and how I could love anyone more than Maliyah. It was such an interesting question that was difficult to answer with my currently-limited mental capacity. But the main answer is… it’s so different. With Maliyah, I always felt like she knew I loved her, and she couldn’t tell me otherwise. I had no way to reinforce that thought either way, so I just had to believe that what I was doing/saying/writing/feeling was enough. With A, it’s like… is it enough? Does he KNOW? If he does, why is he crying so much? There’s a live feedback loop that always makes me feel like I’m not doing enough.
  • My main struggle at the moment is trying to find a community. I love my loss moms so much. I loved my Pregnancy After Loss weekly support group. And now, I’m alone. I’m still a loss mom, but now I have what so many loss moms desperately want so I am not fully in the group anymore. And I am definitely not a normal mom. I’ve tried a little bit of convo with other moms and it’s good to know some of our worries are the same, but sometimes mine feel so much more serious because I immediately go to full catastrophe mode. Like A was small, and I could have just put him in newborn-size clothes, but I was terrified the fabric would somehow ride up over his face and he’d suffocate. I couldn’t sleep at all until we got him preemie clothes and a zipper swaddle (these things are life-changing).
  • Also related to not relating to moms, it’s really difficult for me to ask for or listen to advice. I know moms with living kids know better, they have done this before. They have feeding tips, sleep tips, etc. But I should have done this before. I should know what I’m doing because I should have an 18-month-old. But I don’t, I have a newborn and I never got to do any of this with Maliyah. Any time moms say, “this worked for me,” I hear, “I know better because my baby lived.” And the hard part is, they’re always right. I don’t know what I’m doing. This is new to me. But it’s hard to hear because I know how my story should have gone. It’s a lot of mental work to push down my thoughts of inadequacy and instead accept advice and tips.
  • At our first pediatrician appointment 3 days after A was born, the doctor said, “you’re both new at this, you’re both learning.” I try to channel that energy and remember that we are figuring this out together.

A is sleeping right now, which means I know I should be sleeping too, so I’ll finish this post off with a shoutout to my husband. He has been exceeding my expectations at every single turn. He has been watching out for both my mental and physical health. He was the one who pushed us to go back to the hospital when I needed to. He is the one who advocated for going to a post-natal retreat so we could relax and ease into this new life, and learn crucial skills. He has purchased (and assembled) all of the baby stuff in the house to make sure we are as well-stocked and comfortable as possible. This included finding a service that delivered preemie size diapers within an hour. He has been changing diapers and feeding A like a champion, and sleeping in shifts despite already being back at work. As I said before, I do not know how single moms do it, and I’m so grateful to have a partner in this and in everything. A few days ago, I said to him, “you know, I still love Maliyah,” and he said he does, too. We’re in a new chapter of our story, and I’m so thankful to have had him in my previous ones, and I’m excited to have him in my future ones as well.

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Pregnancy After Loss

Milestones

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motivational simple inscription against doubts

Last week in therapy, I told my therapist I was 28 weeks pregnant and she said, “wow that’s amazing, so you made it to your goal!” I started laughing and I said, honestly, I’ve made it to a lot of my goals, but I keep moving the goal post.

Later in the week, I had a similar conversation with a friend who was a college athlete and she told me that my mindset was an athlete mentality of taking things one step at a time to mentally push through hard things. That’s exactly how I feel. First hurdle: AFP test. Second hurdle: Maliyah’s gestational age. Next: 7 months. Next: 30 weeks or “still be pregnant on my birthday.” My absolute ultimate goal is to make it to July, which gets closer every day, but I’ve also come to a sense of peace that it may not happen and that’s also ok, because my REAL ultimate goal is a living, healthy baby.

But this post isn’t about simply gestational age milestones. First of all, that’s boring, and second of all, every single day is a milestone for PAL moms. Shit, every single minute feels like a milestone on some days!

Today I wanted to talk about other milestones. There have been a lot, and there are many more to go.

Let me start by saying, much of this post is an ode to myself. Just like my “Proud of Myself 2023” post, I am proud of myself for each and every one of these things. To a non-loss parent, some of these things may seem inconsequential. But for a loss parent, each one of these was like Everest and sometimes the mere thought of scaling the task took my breath away. I’m not seeking congratulations, affirmations, compliments or well wishes. I’m writing this to open the eyes of those who may not realize how small things seem HUGE, and how important it is to recognize small wins.

Interestingly, I had a conversation about this (recognizing wins) in therapy this week, too. I go to a lot of therapy. I was lamenting all of the things I haven’t been able to do (create a registry, have anything related to a baby in the house, call our baby by name) and all of the things I have had to scale back on (going to the gym, hanging out with friends). My therapist spent a full three minutes reminding me of all of the things I have done, how far I’ve come, and suggesting that maybe, just maybe, I was setting the bar too high for myself to ensure I’d never reach it and set myself up for failure. It’s possible. I have high expectations!

Me: I quit law.

Therapist: …After you graduated law school and passed two bar exams and got a job at a law firm that was a terrible work environment.

I guess she has some good points.

So anyway, I decided to dedicate this week’s post to my personal achievements relating to this new baby. The first milestone happened before I was even pregnant.

My first milestone for myself was following Pregnancy After Loss Instagram accounts. The thought of entering another pregnancy was daunting. The idea that I would willfully engage in the content was a huge step in and of itself for me. Long before I took a pregnancy test, I was favorite-ing inspirational quotes about “one day at a time” or “different pregnancy, different outcome.” I was hoping that by swiping by these mantras on social media, they would somehow mind-meld into my thoughts. Osmosis works, right? It’s how Chandler thought he was a strong, confident woman (there is ALWAYS a Friends reference). I’m not sure if any of it worked, but the mere following of accounts that mentioned alive babies, or ongoing pregnancies, as opposed to following solely loss-parent accounts and muting anyone with a child, was a big step for me.

The next milestone came in the form of feeling movement from baby boy. With Maliyah, I had an anterior placenta, so I didn’t feel movement until much later in pregnancy, and I was never able to feel her from the outside. This also meant that Chris was never able to feel her moving. The first few weeks of movement for this pregnancy, I was in a bit of denial. First, it started a lot earlier! I wasn’t sure if I was making it up. For a while, I ignored it. Then eventually, I would put my hand on my stomach at night (another mini-milestone) and see if I could feel him kicking around. Eventually, I knew I could. Again, I waited a few days-weeks until I said anything. Then, I told Chris. When I finally told him and let him put his hand on my stomach, that was a massive milestone for me. The idea that we were both in on this, and we could both fall so so so far, was something that took me a long time to reckon with.

Some people are excited to be a cute pregnant person in cute pregnant-people-clothes. They take photos holding their bump, they make little hearts with their husband’s hands. They purposefully wear form-fitting clothes. Not me. Not me one bit. If I showcased my pregnancy, that would mean acknowledging it. Worse, that might mean someone would TALK to me about it. That was/is the very last thing I wanted. I imagined the day that strangers would approach me on the street and ask when I was due. When you are just trying to make it one day at a time, that is a LOADED question. But eventually, I didn’t fit in my jeans. And it was getting too hot to wear leggings every day. Also, leggings are tight, and the bruises on my stomach were more and more pronounced as my blood volume was increasing. I needed clothes. I held out as long as I could, but eventually, I dove in and purchased some maternity clothes. I talked about this in support group, and someone suggested that perhaps it was easier to think about buying something for me as opposed to buying something for the baby. That reframe actually helped me a lot. Whether or not this baby survived, it was hot, and I needed to wear clothes. I wasn’t jinxing the baby by having clothes, I was just… living in a world that requires clothed people. I decided I would become an “overalls girlie” because having no waistband means having no pressure on my stomach bruises. Thank god for Amazon returns because my tall self needed to try on a LOT of shorts overalls before finding a couple that worked. #LongLegsBruisedCity. If you thought I’d be including photos here, you’d be wrong.

The next huge milestone I looked forward to was having our baby boy surpass the weight of his older sister. She only weighed 634 grams when she was born, or 1 pound and 6.4 ounces. I didn’t have a scan for this baby at the exact gestational age of Maliyah’s birth (25 weeks 4 days), but I did have one a week prior, at 24 weeks, 4 days, and he was already 728 grams, or 1 pound, 10 ounces. This was huge news for us. Trust me, I know most moms aren’t jumping for joy at a baby under 2 pounds, but the fact that he was growing bigger was a sign that things were already going better. That measurement put him in the 58th percentile, which was MASSIVE as far as we were concerned. No wonder I needed maternity clothes!

Our next milestone was one I put off for a long time: picking a name. Chris was all in on choosing names. Last time, we used an app called Baby Names, which is like Tinder for expecting parents. You tie your account to your partner’s and then you swipe left or right on names and it alerts you when you have a match. The idea is fun, it’s gamified, and it’s easy. But… it’s only really fun if you think your baby will be alive. It’s not a “fun” task to pick a name for a baby you still believe will likely be dead. Chris had more confidence than me. He also probably remembered how hard it was for us to pick a name last time, so he thought we should start the process early. He redownloaded the app and told me to, too. He purchased the upgraded account so we could filter different names by national origin, celebrities, all sorts of things. I put off downloading the app, and put it off some more. I wasn’t ready to call this baby anything other than “baby.” Or “maybe baby.” Finally, after much cajoling I downloaded the app and forced myself to swipe a little bit every day. As you read in the post about our “maybe babymoon,” we picked some front-runners. We have a name we have been test-driving in the house. By we, I mostly only mean Chris. We picked a name, but I can’t bring myself to say it. I cannot acknowledge him by name because what if…

I’m working on it. Let’s call it a milestone-in-progress.

The final milestone I’ll mention for now, was when I decided to tell my coworkers I was expecting a baby. I put this off for a WHILE. When I was pregnant with Maliyah, we had some worries about her before things went south for REAL for real. So I put it off. I didn’t tell my work until I was 22 weeks pregnant. I waited for our anatomy scan, and once that was clear, I thought we would be smooth sailing. I told the whole staff on a zoom meeting, with all cameras on. 3 weeks later, to the day, I checked myself into the hospital and my supervisor had to un-tell the staff.

I swore I would never make that mistake again. I thought I had waited a long time last time, but this time, the idea of telling anyone at 22 weeks felt like tempting the universe in a huge way. I needed to wait longer. And I could not imagine looking at anyone’s face while I said it. I assumed I would see either sympathy or excitement, and I didn’t want to see any of it. I didn’t want to be forced to react to any of it, either. Also, I am now so keenly aware of many others’ silent struggles, and I wanted to minimize the pain that I might cause them as much as possible. I decided I would wait until absolutely necessary, and then I would send an email. I wrote and rewrote that email 5 times. Then, I asked Chris to proofread and approve it. He told me it felt “cold.” It was. I didn’t want warmth in return, I didn’t want ANY response in return (in fact, I even said that). I wanted to simply make an informational announcement. I made Chris stand next to me while I sent the email. My heart was racing, I got zone minutes on my Fitbit. But I did it. Then, I immediately went to the gym and locked my phone in a locker, which has become my standard way to avoid the world and human interaction.

I am on to the 4th page of this blog. Those are a lot of milestones to celebrate! Again, I will reiterate that to some, these things may seems small. So what, I followed an account on Instagram? Obviously, I would let my husband feel our baby move. Of COURSE I told my coworkers I have leave coming up in 3 months (hopefully). But none of those things were easy, small, obvious or straightforward. To me, those things were huge. I hope to have more milestones soon… as my therapist would say, even a tiny step forward is a step forward.

(Written at: 28 weeks 4 days)

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Pregnancy After Loss, Travel

Babymoon?

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Chris and I just came back from a week-long trip to the Catskills. When he was asked at the time of reservation if we were celebrating anything, he said it was our Babymoon. Was that true? I guess so. We probably wouldn’t have gone away for a week in the middle of earnings season if it wasn’t for the thing growing inside me. We also probably would have gone somewhere much further than a 2-hour drive away, if I wasn’t too nervous to step on a plane or be anywhere far from a hospital. I also am terrified to leave the state, since it seems that every other day, there’s a news story of pregnant people dying in other places. Anyway, we went on a babymoon. Maybe.

I really don’t know why I hate the term. I guess it’s just the confidence factor. Like “we are on vacation because soon we will have another person to bring with us!” Will we? I don’t know. No one knows.

We didn’t take a babymoon with Maliyah, although we talked about it with a lot more confidence. But we never got past 25 weeks with Maliyah. Most people take babymoons much later! Maybe that’s why they have (false) confidence. This time, I just knew that once I hit the third trimester, my anxiety wouldn’t allow a trip. Ironically, before we booked the trip, I wasn’t sure if my doctors would be ok with it, so we decided to clear it in advance at 23 weeks. My main doctor seemed a lot more confident than me, in fact, she said she thought it was a GREAT idea. i.e. she knew I needed something to lower my stress and distract me.

So that’s how we ended up in the Catskills in a crazy luxurious lodge with only 5-7 other guests on any given night.

The entire property only had 14 rooms, including three stand-alone treehouses, and they were all suites. We were there during the week, and during a low season, so we were upgraded for the entire week to the second largest room in the place (thank you husband and your credit-card-churning-hobby). It was insane the size of this place. We had an indoor AND personal outdoor fireplace. We had an indoor and outdoor shower. We had a hand-painted claw foot tub and double vanity. We had a separate sitting room and minibar. We also had random animal sculptures around the room including a bear perched on the corner of the 4-poster bed. The bougie log-cabin aesthetic was so cozy and fun. It really felt like we were thousands of miles from home, even though it was a relatively short drive from the hustle and bustle of the largest city in the country. The “room” itself was actually the least impressive part of the place, if you can imagine.

The grounds were breathtaking. Our room was directly on the waterfront of a reservoir, and we had a dock, hammocks, chaise lounges and a jumbo Jenga right on the water. Unfortunately, it was a bit too cold to spend long periods of time out there, but I did spend some time journaling midday when the sun was highest. I also spent lots of my time walking around the grounds and trails, either listening to an audiobook, or listening to nothing at all (besides my more-laborious-every-day breathing up hills). Every evening, dozens of deer took over the grounds. It was a common sight for us to pass 10 or more on our way up to the main lodge for dinner.

On our way!
Purple Bear… King of the Castle (King og the Catskills?)
Our private firepit on the lake.
SOOO beautiful
View from the main lodge
Relaxing and reading by the indoor fire.
Deer!
“treehouses”

The best part about this being a lodge, but also being a 5-star resort, was that there was impeccable wifi everywhere. That meant that I was still able to have therapy and attend a support group, and Chris was still able to work. Thankfully, he didn’t have to work at all the first two days we were there, but after that, he had a comfortable work set up, and I had lots of down time to read three books, go on walks, and of course explore the many activities I could do solo. More on that later.

When we first booked the vacation, they listed all the activities that were included on the property, but they also offered individual activities if we chose to partake and wanted privacy. One of those activities was horseback riding which was a hard no from me, but some of the others like archery and stargazing sounded fun and pregnancy-safe. However, when we arrived at the property and noticed that there were basically no other guests, we realized we didn’t need to book private activities, because basically all activities were private.

Our first full day there, we saw that archery was on the lodge schedule. We both had been intrigued by archery, since we had done it as kids, but not in 20+ years. We decided to take our chances with a lodge-wide lesson, and said we could always ask to have an individual lesson later if it was packed. Well… we were alone. 100% alone with our instructor Anthony who was an amazing instructor AND photographer. (See photos below of our Katniss and Peeta moments.) Once I realized I could only wink my right eye and switched to shooting leftie, my aim improved exponentially. Anthony said he would call on us for the next zombie apocalypse. High praise. As we were getting tired (it’s a massive shoulder workout!), another couple arrived (also pregnant!). Perfect timing.

Our home-away-from-home was 10 minutes from the site of Woodstock, which was very exciting for me as a child of boomers. I told Chris we needed to go visit Bethel Woods, which has an entire museum dedicated to 1960’s and 1970’s music, the soundtrack of my childhood. We had so much fun exploring the hippie bus, learning about the last-minute location change, and hearing about the artists who turned down the opportunity to perform (talk about having regrets!). Unfortunately, the main grounds weren’t open yet for the season, so we couldn’t explore, but it mostly looked like beautifully landscaped fields, probably much cleaner and more manicured than they were when 890128930 un-washed music fans overtook the grounds for a week. I also texted my mom while I was there and learned that she unknowingly drove through the area while Woodstock was happening! I love learning new old stories about my parents.

While it was fun to leave the resort grounds for a few hours, we primarily stayed on the campus. Our main goals were to relax, spend time together, and try to keep my stress low while getting through the 25 week, 4 day mark with baby 2, also known as the day I had Maliyah. That meant that we mainly hung around, went on walks, and played games at the Rec Center. They had pool (Chris was far superior), jumbo Connect 4 (I out-strategized him), shuffleboard, curling, and cornhole. They also had a LOT of fire pits. It felt like everywhere we turned there was another one, and on our very first night, the groundskeeper set us up with a private fire and a s’mores kit with branded chocolate disks. It was delicious, but I always forget that being fire-adjacent means I need to wash my hair. Thankfully our massive room shower had multiple shower heads for very clean hair.

Chris had to work on a couple of the days, but I kept myself busy. I went to the gym, I went on hikes on a few trails, and I did a solo crafting activity where I painted my own bird house for the staff to hang up on one of the trails. See the little hearts on each side of the door for my babies?

On our final night, they brought in a resident astrologer who came with his massive telescope, and walked us into the low reservoir for star-gazing. He pointed out constellations, specific stars, and he had a special app on his phone to line up the telescope exactly with many of the celestial beings. He personally felt he was cheating by using the app, but I had no idea something like that existed! We saw neighboring galaxies, we saw the red-orange hue of Betelgeuse, a red super giant star, and toward the end of the night, the moon rose high in the sky and we saw every tiny crater. It was unbelievable.

S’mores
My Personal Peeta
Don’t mess with us!
KATNISS EVERDEEN
Anthony, the man, the myth, the legend.
Acitvities (cornhole) before dinner
Trip to Woodstock
Chris would not peace sign with me.
Pool shark.
Quiet Crafternoon
See the hearts?
Moon Gazing

Besides the major relaxing vibes, I’d say the star of the show for the week was the food. It was absolutely incredible. Not only did it feel like we had an on-call private chef because there were basically no other guests, but everything we had was amazing. Ok, I hated the quail but that’s my fault, I was trying to be too adventurous. Of course they also had many mocktail options, all included!

Room service was available 14 hours/day, and since there were no other guests, it appeared at our cabin on a golf cart nearly instantaneously. After our Bethel Woods adventure, we ordered late lunch to the room, and I was even able to ask for the turkey club sandwich, which I have been sorely missing while being pregnant, and they heated up the meat for me so I could eat it! Every single change to a menu item we wanted, they did and they didn’t bat an eye. One night, we were stuffed after dinner, but decided we wanted to have dessert later, and they said no problem, they’d deliver it right before the kitchen closed. So, while Chris and I discussed possible baby names with the in-room fireplace blazing, room service delivered a massive banana split sundae that we ate in bed. Talk about decadent!

I will admit, I see a lot of people go on babymoons to far-flung places and beaches, they get tans, they feel completely comfortable getting on a plane, they don’t worry about blood clots or proximity to level 4 NICUs, and they don’t panic about fresh fruit or contaminated water in other countries. It makes me jealous. I wish I had that confidence and naivety, and those uncomplicated circumstances. But that isn’t my story and that’s ok. What we wanted to achieve, time together, and a low-stress environment at a distance I felt comfortable going, we did. And we had a great time. We maybe even decided on a name…

(Started writing at: 25 weeks, 6 days, finished writing at 29 weeks 3 days)

We did not buy this… because Chris thought it was ugly and I was too scared to jinx anything.
Banana Split in Bed
More amazing views
🙂
Final night
He says he loves me
Alcohol-free bubbles
Congratulations… hopefully
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Pregnancy After Loss

A Day in the Life: Pregnancy After Loss Edition

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postit scrabble to do todo

This blog is a weird one, it’s stream of consciousness, and it’s a true window into my mind. There was nothing special about this particular day, this was just one of many, many days. As I wrote this, I realized the amount of times I have anxious thoughts. Spoiler alert: it’s a lot.

I think this may be an interesting read for those who have never experienced pregnancy after loss (“PAL”), and for those of you who have, it may sound extremely familiar. I wish I could say that this was a more anxious day than normal, but it wasn’t. It was just a day like every other, of which there are many. All in a row.

I have been finding myself so incredibly exhausted lately, but it’s not always physical exhaustion, as much as mental exhaustion. After reading through my own thoughts, I know why. Being pregnant after loss is all-consuming. Literally every normal thought is followed by a catastrophic one. Every reassuring thing seems to disappear into thin air mere moments after. It’s a never-ending thought spiral, and it is tiring. If you have been wondering why I’ve been absent (from get-togethers, social media, group chats), it’s because I am BUSY. In my own head.

8 am:

Lucky me, another day alive. Ready for 16 hours of anxiety.

First things first:

“Chris, do you think our baby is dead?”

“Um no? Why would you say that?”

“I dunno, because it’s my first thought every day when I wake up.”

Let me check my Fitbit app, did I sleep alright? Yes! Only 3 times awake to pee, and 4 nightmares that I was in the hospital. Not bad. Resting heartrate looks normal, maybe my blood pressure will also be normal. Let me not get my hopes up.

8:20 am:

Time to take my blood pressure. How long will it take me to get calm this morning? Maybe I can trick myself into thinking I’m still asleep. I probably shouldn’t have brushed my teeth and put in my contacts. Ok, deep breaths. Nope, that makes it worse. Shallow breaths. Why do I feel like I’m on a run? Let me check my Fitbit. My HR is already up 20 bpm from resting. I will just sit here quietly some more and hope it goes down.

Phew, worst part of the morning down. Now time for vitamins, meds, and injection. How long is too long to hold the ice pack on my stomach? The bruising hasn’t been too bad lately. Does that mean the blood thinners aren’t working? How do I know if they’re working? Yesterday I had a nose bleed and I thought that was a good sign but “the bruises aren’t bruising” as Gen Z would say. Why can’t I be happy about not having too many bruises?

9 am:

Work time. This should be a good distraction. I have two meetings in a row, great distraction. Easy: Don’t think about being pregnant. Thank goodness for Zoom, I can wear stretchy pants that don’t push into my minimal stomach bruises and no one can tell. I don’t look pregnant on Zoom! Great!

Wait, is my face puffy? Face puffiness is a sign of pre-eclampsia. I don’t have pre-eclampsia, I literally took my blood pressure 10 minutes ago. I am fine.

What is this person on the meeting even saying? Right, right, they want to switch jobs because they can’t afford to live there with their two kids. Two LIVING kids. Sigh. I won’t bring up my dead one, but it sure does cost less! I mean, the therapy is expensive but…

Alright, meeting 2. I will stay focused. I will not think about how maybe my baby is dead inside me right now. Oh, they want to launch a project in the new fiscal year in July! That’s fine. Well, maybe I’ll be on maternity leave. They don’t know that, but I do. But then again maybe I won’t be on leave if the baby is dead. Should I tell them about this baby? No, I haven’t seen him alive on a scan in 3 weeks, that would be presumptuous. Good chance he died since then. And last time I said something to my coworkers about Maliyah, she was dead 3 weeks later. I can’t jinx it. I will just pretend I will definitely be working in July.

12 pm:

Gym break. I need to get out of my head. I need someone to tell me what to do for an hour. I need to move my body and get out of my mind. This is good! I can still run relatively well. I need to keep my eye on my HR though. My nephrologist says no more than 140bpm. But my MFM says I can do anything so long as I can keep up conversation and breathe regularly. Maybe I’ll compromise at 165 but only in short bursts. Ok, 3 minute push pace. If I start at my base, I probably can increase as I go, but if I start in a push, it’ll be harder to bring my HR down if I need to. Will running too hard for 30 seconds suffocate my baby? I don’t think so, but I also can’t be sure.

I don’t think anyone can tell I’m pregnant, they probably just think I’m lazy. As soon as I hit orange zone I start taking my speed down. This is fine, I feel good. The gym was a good idea. I wonder how many exercises I’ll have to modify when we start lifting weights. Will anyone know why I’m switching exercises? I hope no one says anything. I am still non-pregnant passing I think… no one would dare say anything would they? I need to stop thinking, it’s bringing up my heart rate and everyone can see on the screen.

2 pm:

One more meeting and it’s by phone. This is good. No dissecting whether my face looks pregnant or pre-eclamptic.

3 pm:

How many emails can I get through before the end of the day? Wait, is that the baby kicking? Yes! It is. He’s alive. I think. I’m pretty sure. Only alive babies do that right? Let me do a quick Google. I thought I had some pain under my rib but I don’t think that’s “upper right quadrant” pain, even though it’s technically in my URQ. I am probably just dehydrated. And my blood pressure was perfectly normal this morning! It’s not that. It’s not that. It’s not that. Back to emails.

6 pm:

Work over, no more distractions. I could watch tv. I still haven’t finished the Mindy Project. But they’re all OBGYNs. Hard pass. Maybe I’ll go to sleep early. Not that I can ever manage to do that, but maybe tonight is my night. First, dinner. What do I want to eat? Nothing really. What does the baby want to eat? Who even knows if he’s still alive. No, he IS alive. I felt him 3 hours ago. My baby is alive. My baby is alive. Everything is fine.

“Chris, do you think our baby is ok?”

“Um yes, why wouldn’t he be?”

“I dunno, just checking.”

“One day at a time.”

“I know, I know, it’s just… there are so many days.”

8 pm:

Support group! Yes! Other crazy people! All my feelings are normal. This is normal. PAL is hard. Everyone worries. REMEMBER THIS EMILY. The facilitator says I can always go into the hospital if I am worried. Even if I have “no reason” to be worried. I don’t know if I can bring myself to do that. But maybe I will. I have a nephrology appointment Thursday, it’s 2 blocks from the hospital… I haven’t seen our baby in 3 weeks, I could just hop over and get a quick look-see. No… that’s crazy. I felt him move today! BP was good this morning! I don’t want to waste anyone’s time…

9 pm:

Blood pressure and then evening meds. I can calm down. I will calm down. Everything is fine. BP was good this morning. Progressive muscle relaxation. Slowly melt into the couch. But don’t actually slouch. I need an accurate reading. Feet firmly planted on the ground. Back supported. Arm at heart level. Ugh my pulse is going up again I can feel it. Let me check my Fitbit. Yep, it’s up. Way up. Ok, I will sit here calmly for another 5 minutes and see if I can chill. Breathe regularly, but don’t think about breathing. Easy.

Phew normal! I don’t have to do this for another 12 hours. Maybe it’ll also be normal tomorrow. Better not get my hopes up though.

11:30 pm:

I will read in bed until I get tired. OMG he is moving again. HE’S ALIVE. Now maybe I can sleep. But I shouldn’t sleep on my back. Wait, no, maybe that’s an old wives’ tale. My last OB said any sleep is good sleep and my body will wake me or move me if necessary.

My body doesn’t know shit. It didn’t warn me of anything last time. I should probably try to sleep on my side. One day down. One day closer.

“Chris, want to say goodnight to our baby? I hope you’re in there!”

“I hope you stay in there!”

“I hope you’re healthy!”

“I hope you’re growing!”

“And I hope you don’t try to kill your mama.”

“We love you.”

(Written at: 22 weeks, 6 days)

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Pregnancy After Loss

The Blame Game

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Recently, I have been extremely bothered by the seemingly-innocuous question, “how’s the baby?” So many people have said this to me recently in person, by phone, or by text. It always leaves me completely frozen.

How’s the baby? I HAVE NO IDEA. And trust me, I wish I did.

I want to scream at the question-asker, “I FUCKING WISH I KNEW.” It’s something I think about basically every waking moment of every day of every week of every month.

Depending on my mood, I usually say something with a similar meaning to, “I fucking wish I knew,” but in a slightly nicer tone. I’ll say something like, “I wish I knew! Lol”. That “lol” gets them every time. I want people to think, “She’s so breezy! So casual! Look at her, what a chill loss mom!” FALSE.

Sometimes I say, “your guess is as good as mine!” Sometimes I say, “how do you think?,” which always leaves them confused, because how would they know? But the thing is, they honestly do know just as much as I know.

In this weird in-between time where people know I’m pregnant and I’m definitely showing (if you know what my body usually looks like), but I’m not feeling consistent movement and I don’t have closely-spaced appointments, I really do not know how the baby is.

I was chatting about this with my therapist this week, and she said, “why can’t you say, ‘last time we saw him, he was good’?” Sometimes, I do say this. But that usually leads to follow-up questions about why I stated it that way, and what happened since that last time. Nothing bad happened! But also, nothing happened at all. I am just operating on a wing and a prayer. I haven’t had visual confirmation that my baby is alive in weeks.

In my mind, I compared this to another frequently-asked question I receive, “how are your parents?” Of course, I don’t have airtags on my parents and I don’t watch them on monitors at all times, I have no idea how my parents are doing at the exact moment when someone asks me about them. And yet, I answer that question all the time. I say they’re great and give some sort of recent update about them. It doesn’t send me into a panic, and I don’t say, “well, I haven’t had proof of life from my parents in 9 days, but last time I spoke to them, they were very much ok.”

So, why is it so different when someone asks about my baby? First of all, just like I mentioned about trauma informing anxiety around pre-e, trauma is also informing my thoughts here. Thankfully, I have never had someone ask me how my parents were, and then something horrific happened and I didn’t know about it. If that had happened to me, I might have a similar trauma response now when people ask about them. That’s exactly what happened with my last baby: things were very bad, and I had no idea.

But it’s more than that. People don’t expect children to be their parents’ keepers. People do not expect a human to know IMMEDIATELY, with some sort of psychic capability, when something happens to their parents. With pregnancy, people do. If it turns out that a mom had no clue their child was in danger, the blaming and shaming comes out with a vengeance.

When speaking with my therapist, I told her that for some reason, with this specific question, I find that I can’t “lie” and say the baby is good. When pressed, I said, “what if I say the baby is good, then the next day I find out he isn’t, and then not only did I lie, I will be blamed for not knowing something had happened?” We dug into that blame a little bit more, and as with everything else, there’s a touch of PTSD there.

Last year, I will never forget when I checked into triage at labor and delivery, and the nurse there called me a mom for the very first time. She said, “you’re doing great mom; you did exactly the right thing for your baby coming in and getting everything checked out.” At the time, I said, “don’t call me mom, it’s way too early.” In hindsight, that statement bothered me even more, but for a completely different reason. I know she meant it to bolster my confidence, and to make me feel like I did a great thing by coming in when I thought something was amiss, but the reality is, I didn’t know anything was wrong. I had no clue. I felt great and I was at home cooking dinner! The only reason I went to the hospital was because my doctor called my cell phone and told me to. That statement from the nurse actually made me feel terrible because, if great moms knew when something was wrong with their babies, then what did that make me?

Good moms are expected to always know what is going on with their kids, and this extends throughout their lives. I hear the guilt from moms who had reduced fetal movement and didn’t know, or moms who put their kids to bed and then they never woke up, and from parents of much older kids who maybe let them go out late at night, even when they had a “bad feeling.” The guilt never ends.

My therapist shared a personal story about someone she knew who was taking care of her 20-something-year old grandson, and he had a seizure and died, but she hadn’t known because he was in his room with the door closed. This poor woman was blamed for not checking on him sooner, and somehow not preventing this completely unpredictable event. He was a fully-grown adult who had the right to privacy and a closed door! It’s not just guilt, but also blame that never ends.

In pregnancy, it feels like, as Gen Z says, “you have one job.” The job is to keep your baby alive, but it’s also to know when they’re not alive, or not doing well. This is easier said than done.

As I’ve said many times on here, with Maliyah, I had no symptoms and no signs. But I also didn’t know what the symptoms or signs were that I was supposed to be looking out for. Parts of me blame myself for this, and wonder that if MAYBE I had known what to look for, I would have spotted something. I know this is probably not true, since I was in the hospital for days, and doctors were asking all the right questions and looking for all signs, and I had none.

But this time, I do know. The main difference between last pregnancy and this one is my knowledge. With that knowledge, comes more blame. I say to myself, “this time I will KNOW if something is wrong.” But what if, yet again, there are no external signs? What if I don’t know? I will never be entirely sure. What if I say things are good, and they aren’t? I wish I had an ultrasound machine at home, but I don’t.

I am symptom-spotting all day every day. I know that a headache is a tell-tale sign of high blood pressure and pre-eclampsia due to brain swelling. But headaches are also just a common occurrence in pregnancy. Also, I am prone to headaches outside of pregnancy! This does not help my anxiety. I also know that dizziness and light-headedness is a sign of low blood pressure. Since my blood pressure has recently been on the low side, I am now looking for this possibility as well.

Monday, I was at the gym, and I started to get a headache. I was panicking. My blood pressure had been fine in the morning, but what if it was spiking? How quickly could I get to the hospital? Should I go home and check my BP or just go directly there? I felt paralyzed, stared blankly at the wall, and I hadn’t done any exercises for 2 minutes when my friend asked me if I was ok. I remembered that I had not had a headache before class, and one thing that had changed is that I put my hair up. Sure enough, when I took my ponytail down and quickly braided my hair, my head felt a lot better.

Then, 3 minutes later, we went into a circuit of chest presses to high bridge pulls on the TRX. I got up from the bench, and felt light-headed. Panic set in again. Was my blood pressure actually too low? How do I make it go up? I’d never had this problem before, so I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I also go to the hospital for that? Again, I stood paralyzed by fear. Then I remembered that it is semi-common to get light-headed from standing up quickly, and it’s even more common in pregnancy, especially when feeling overheated. After standing there staring at the wall for a second, I felt completely normal again. At least, I felt normal physically. Mentally, I felt like a crazy person.

Meanwhile, the blame game was continuing in my head. What if I went to the hospital and they asked where I had been when it happened, and said I shouldn’t have been at the gym? I have followed all of my doctor’s advice, but surely this would somehow end up my fault. Don’t I care about my baby? I should know better! As a reminder, readers, I entered this thought spiral simply because my ponytail was too tight. The self-blame is never-ending.

In my rational mind, I know there’s no explanation for what happened with Maliyah. It is not my fault. Many doctors have told me this. But to me, it still feels like I somehow made some mistake. Maybe I didn’t make a mistake causing her demise, but I certainly feel like I made a mistake by not realizing it faster. Everyone is allowed one mistake of innocence. Two mistakes though? Not ok. I feel even more pressure now to do everything in my power to protect this baby because I already used up my naiveté, and I do not want to be blamed if something goes wrong again.

There’s no good way to answer the question, “how’s the baby.” This is part of why I avoid discussing my pregnancy in general. I have decided that for now, I will simply sidestep the question like a good politician and instead say, “physically I’m feeling good.” That is true, but a non-answer to the actual question. Another one of my favorites at the moment is: “no news is hopefully good news.” Also true. Note I didn’t say, “no news is good news,” because that may be a lie. Every one of these interactions is a stark reminder of how lovely it would be to be pregnant and naïve, and how nice it must feel to just answer simple questions with simple answers. But that’s not my story, and none of this is simple.

(Written at: 21 weeks 4 days)

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Pregnancy After Loss

No, It’s Not My First

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monochrome photography of children on swing

Three weeks after Maliyah died, I reached out to the Pregnancy Loss Support Program, and they matched me with a Peer Counselor, who I spoke with a few times. The thing I remember most from our conversations was when I asked her when I would feel normal again, and she said “never.” She said, “even if you decide to have another pregnancy, a random stranger will stop you in the grocery store aisle and ask you when you are due, and if it’s your first. And for the rest of your life, you’re going to face that, and other questions that have no good answers.”

At the time, I thought she was insane. Another pregnancy? Over my dead body. Literally.

But she was right, of course. I am still non-pregnant-passing in most random-stranger scenarios, but at the gym, in spandex and tank tops, it’s become obvious.

The issue is: it’s not my first. But unless I want to follow up with “my first one is dead,” then I never quite know what to say. If I say I have another kid, then they ask how old she is (dead) or how I feel about being a mom of 2 (probably not the way they think I’d feel, since one is dead). If I do say it’s my first, then people assume I don’t know what’s coming, and offer their unwelcome advice, and I do know.

When I first started to tell my coaches at the gym that I was pregnant, only one of them knew about my pregnancy last year. For the ones who didn’t know about it, I figured they would ask me if I wanted modifications for certain exercises, and I wanted to nip that in the bud. To get ahead of that question, I came in for the kill with the overshare. After their squeals of excitement, I said, “I don’t think you know this, but I was also pregnant last year. The baby died, and I almost died. So, this time around I have a very large team of doctors giving me a lot of advice, and I’ll be following that advice and making some of my own modifications.” This was usually followed by shock, nods, a few “I’m so sorries” and “of courses,” and from then on, I was free to take things at my own pace, unbothered.

I wish I didn’t have to be so blunt, but I just couldn’t stand the thought of playing dumb. I didn’t want to pretend I needed help with a modification for a cross-body woodchop when I was already 25.5 weeks pregnant less than a year ago. I knew what to do and what not to do, and I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself.

It’s not my first. I know what exercises to modify. I know what foods not to eat. I know to try not to sleep on my back. I know to take the trash out daily because the smell makes me want to vomit. I know every test and scan that exists. I know how my body will look and change and feel. I know, because I’ve done it before. RECENTLY.

This time, I also have a huge team of doctors giving me (sometimes conflicting) medical advice, so I don’t need any more people’s advice, especially less qualified people. I now have the BEST OF THE BEST on my team, experts in their field, sometimes the foremost in their field in the country, thanks to living in New York. They know their shit. As I said to someone recently, “you know the saying, ‘there are too many cooks in the kitchen?’ Well, I have too many doctors in my uterus.”

Also, my pregnancy is not a normal one. Most people under the age of 85 don’t have a nephrologist on speed dial. Therefore, while some coaches at my gym may have training in coaching normal pregnant people, they probably don’t have training coaching “special needs Emily.” I don’t blame them, even most doctors wouldn’t know! Heck, I had different advice from 2 doctors on my own team! But the point is, this ain’t my first rodeo. I know more about the specifics of pregnancy than probably 99.9999% of childless non-doctors; I’ve dedicated the past year of my life to research and information-gathering.

I also know more about pregnancy than a large percentage of people with living children. That’s because I’ve now gone through 2/3 of a pregnancy twice, first with a very complicated pregnancy, and now, a super high risk one. I know every possible scan, every possible blood test, every possible complication. I know the different trisomies by heart, and which tests can screen for them. I know multiple different types of cerclages. I know when bed rest is recommended (almost never) and which recommendations are old wives’ tales. Most people go through a pregnancy with naïvity. I have none of that, but I have a boatload of knowledge. So no, it’s not my first.

The complicated part, of course, is that I have nothing to show for it. How do I explain that I have been 25 weeks pregnant, AND 14 weeks pregnant, but I’ve never parented a child? I don’t. I just stay away from people, mostly, especially parents. I steer clear of conversations I don’t want to be a part of or can’t contribute to. When I see people talk about how they don’t want their kids to grow up, and they want them to stay just this age forever, I shut my mouth. Because I know that’s not true. I know they’d be devastated if their kid, in fact, never grew up. I know because mine never did.

I find that the more often I share about Maliyah as part of my story this time around, the more comfortable I am. Instead of just saying, “I’m pregnant!” I’ll say, “I’m pregnant again!” Depending on the situation, and if I’m in a charitable mood and want to lighten the emotional load on the listener, I sometimes add some humor or jest.

I used this humor tactic recently when I went to the dentist. One year ago at the dentist, I was pregnant. At the time, my gums were bleeding every night when I flossed, so I mentioned it. The female dentist said that it happens often in pregnancy, and not to be too worried about it. Then, 6 months later at the dentist, I wasn’t pregnant. Unfortunately, they assigned me to a dental hygienist who was 9 months pregnant. She asked me if anything had changed “in my general health” since my previous appointment. I said, “I was pregnant, and now I’m not.”

Last month, pregnant YET AGAIN at the dentist, I was asked this same question about my general health. This time I laughed, and I said, “it seems I’m on a schedule to get pregnant annually, so I tend to have the same issues every other time I come here! Still no living babies, but hopefully this time’s the charm!” I laughed, she laughed (uncomfortably) and then the moment passed. I didn’t want to go through the fake chit chat about me being pregnant before, so I led with the facts and a joke.

It turns out my Peer Counselor was right, people always ask about the rest of your family unit when you mention a pregnancy or appear pregnant. I’ve decided that in most scenarios, I am not going to say it’s my first. Usually when I think about the reasons I’d say that, it’s to save the listener from an awkward encounter; but it’s not awkward to me, it’s just my family. My feelings have definitely evolved over time, sharing here on the blog has helped me feel more comfortable sharing IRL. Hopefully I’ll have a living addition to the gang this summer, and he’ll be my second.

(Written at: 13 weeks, 6 days)

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Pregnancy After Loss

I’m Not a Regular Mom, I’m a Loss Mom

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There are so many things I lost when my baby died. I lost my baby, obviously, but there were a million secondary losses. One of the big losses was the sense of community. I was in the “expecting” community, then all of a sudden, I was not. If you are the type to join the “bump groups” on reddit or Facebook or anywhere, where you find thousands of women looking to have babies around the same time, all of a sudden you are left behind. Personally, I’m not that kind of gal, and those groups always made me a little uncomfortable. However, last year when I was about 20 weeks pregnant with Maliyah, I did join a local moms group, looking to see where people were signing up for daycare wait lists, what the going rates were for nannies in the neighborhood, and who was selling second-hand strollers, etc. When I came home from the hospital empty-handed and empty wombed, I immediately exited all of those groups and it was devastating.

But I’m pregnant now! I’m back in the club! The COOL MOMS CLUB! The regular moms club! Except… I don’t feel part of the club at all. In fact, I feel exactly the same as I did before, like I have a dead baby. Yes, I’m growing a new one, but I feel completely out of the club.

I didn’t realize just how “other” I felt until last month, when I saw an Instagram friend repost from Vogue Weddings the announcement that Sophia Richie Grainge was pregnant. The photo showed her in an unbuttoned, oversized men’s shirt and underwear, belly on full display. It had 1.9 MILLION likes. I saw it, visibly cringed and recoiled, and clicked away. I couldn’t look at it. I had to take a moment and realize my own reaction. Why was I so uncomfortable seeing a woman pregnant, when I myself was pregnant with a little bump of my own? I reflected on how I felt the week prior at my doctor’s appointment. As it happens when you go to a maternal fetal medicine specialist, most of the people in the waiting room, indeed are carrying babies. It’s why they’re there. But to this day, I look around the waiting room and I can’t stand looking at them. I find myself averting my eyes from anyone pregnant, even walking past strangers on the sidewalk.

After Maliyah died, when I had to go to my doctor for follow-up appointments, I was similarly disturbed and triggered seeing pregnant women. I thought this would be temporary because of grief and trauma, and that I would somehow find myself “fixed” and “back in the in-crowd” once I was pregnant again. I’ve been waiting for this moment, but it hasn’t happened and now I’m not sure if it ever will.

Whenever I think I’m in the clear and I’m feeling more part of the club again, I get shoved back into my place by random seemingly-innocuous conversations. Since I’m in my mid-30’s, of course more and more of my friends are expecting (living) babies. Therefore, many conversations revolve around upcoming births. I was feeling so much better about these conversations. After all, I have one coming up, too (hopefully). But recently, I realized my worries and complaints are just SO DIFFERENT from other expectant mothers.

Once you have a kid, if you have living parents or in-laws, you also make them grandparents. What a gift! I know my mom is dying to be a grandma with a new tiny baby to hold. I also know that some people have overbearing parents and grandparents. Recently, some friends were talking about their parents/in-laws and their involvement in their kids and lives, and I again realized how different my guilt and struggles were. Don’t get me wrong, everyone complains about their parents and in-laws, and I don’t want to minimize any of their struggles, but in 2022, I promised my parents they’d become grandparents and then I gave them a dead grandkid. Instead of visiting their new grandkid in the hospital, they came to visit me, babyless, hooked up to an EKG and 4 IVs. That’s not what I promised, and my extreme feelings of guilt for letting their grandparent dreams down by giving them a dead grandkid, they just don’t compare to all of the “regular mom” guilt.

Now, two years later, I am once again promising my parents another grandkid. Hopefully this one will be alive. My friends complain about how involved their parents are, imagine how uninvolved they’d be if your kid was dead? Imagine how hesitant they’d be to show their excitement if they weren’t sure if this one would survive? Or if they weren’t sure how you’d react to the excitement because you were so terrified yourself? My parents are scared to even ask about my pregnancy unless I bring it up. We have been very clear about not accepting gifts yet because of our extreme caution. I wish more than anything that I could be a “regular” mom getting gifts from excited grandparents-to-be, but instead, we just skirt the subject and wait with baited breath.

The subject of me feeling so incredibly “different” came up recently when I was talking with my husband. He asked who I told about the pregnancy, and I told him that all of my close friends and immediate family knew. He asked what they thought about it, and what they said. I said, “well, they said congratulations, but I don’t really talk to them about it. Who wants to know about my hundreds of appointments and blood draws?” He was pretty surprised to hear I don’t discuss my pregnancy with my friends, since I am so open and outgoing and extroverted usually.

For weeks, I thought about why I don’t feel comfortable talking about it, especially now that many of my friends have kids of their own. I think that is actually why. There are two groups of friends, the people who have babies now (many of whom I was SUPPOSED to have a baby before), and the people who don’t have babies. My friends who have never been pregnant don’t really understand, and those who have been pregnant but haven’t gone through an extremely traumatic loss, I feel like they can’t relate. Sure, I could talk about the scans or the tests to my friends with kids, and they would be able to speak knowledgably about them because they had the same ones. But I doubt they had panic attacks in the waiting room every time. I doubt they didn’t sleep for weeks as they waited for their metabolic blood panel to come back. I doubt they broke out in a cold sweat in the Uber on the way to the hospital. I doubt they literally sob EVERY time they have an ultrasound. I doubt their charts say “SIGNIFICANT ANXIETY” in all caps in the notes section.

I could share more with friends, but I don’t feel like anyone would get it. I’m not a regular mom, I’m a loss mom. Some of this could be in my head, and I like to think all of my friends are sympathetic people, so even if they couldn’t have empathy I think they would feel bad. But I don’t want my friends to feel bad, I want them to understand and it feels like no one can. That’s what the internet is for, I guess, to find other PAL moms who similarly have panic attacks in waiting rooms, and can suggest their favorite progressive muscle relaxation techniques when they feel the cold sweats coming.

My regular mom friends with living kids talk about picking baby names. One mentioned how they settled on a name months before the birth, but they wanted to reserve the right to change it if the baby didn’t seem to match the name. For me, I have a list of names, but then a backup list of names for if the baby is dead. I have my top favorite names, and then I think, “if this baby dies too, would I want to save that name for a living baby? Would I ‘waste’ it on another dead one? What is the meaning of the name, and would it be awkward as a memorial name instead of on a breathing kid? Like if it means energetic or ‘full of life’ isn’t that weird for a dead child? Does the name go with Maliyah’s name? How would it look on a memorial necklace next to hers?”

Regular moms don’t think about those things when they’re deciding names. Regular moms think, “Is this a pretty name? Do we like it? Are we naming them after someone? Does it go with the last name?”

Loss moms have a list of names that go with their last name, and a list of names that don’t, because last names don’t really matter when the baby never gets a birth certificate. Every single decision is made differently.

I’ve talked before about how my excitement is different than other moms-to-be because mine is complicated and tinged by 100 other emotions, and I had a perfect example of this a few weeks ago.

I mentioned to a friend when I announced my pregnancy to her, that I think my body looked at 12 weeks the way that it did at 24 weeks with Maliyah. When she heard that, she told me it made her want to see bump pics. I have a complicated relationship with bump photos to begin with, since I’m not 100% comfortable with my body changing outside of my control, so even with Maliyah, I didn’t take many photos of my changing body, and I certainly did not share them publicly.

When my friend asked me for a bump pic, I told her I didn’t have any. But then I remembered, I did. The morning of my doctor’s appointment at 10 weeks, I took photos in the mirror. I had completely convinced myself that I was going to find out that day that my baby was dead. I was sure. I told myself, “I better take a photo of myself so I have something to commemorate this baby.” I took a couple photos before I put on an outfit and headed to the doctor, where I found out that everything was perfectly fine.

I had actually forgotten about those pictures. I didn’t take them to flaunt or show anyone. I took them for future memories when I figured I’d be left with nothing else. Empty womb, empty arms, yet again. I needed something to put in the memory box.

Regular moms don’t do that or have those thought processes. Regular moms take photos for Instagram or to send to friends and family. Regular moms hold up avocadoes to compare their baby to an inanimate object. Loss moms think about putting photos and memories inside an inanimate object since that’s all they are left with.

I will admit, it made me really sad to realize that the only reason I was taking pictures was because I thought they’d be the only ones I’d have. I realized I had been doing that with other things too. For this pregnancy, I saved the pregnancy test (in a ziplock bag because ew), and I saved my wristband from the hospital from my 12-week scan. I worry that these are the only items I’ll have to remember this baby.

I have tried to think differently and get excited about this new baby, but as you read, it’s been difficult. I get very sad when I see happy and naïve people post pregnancy things because I’m jealous. I wish I had that excitement. I wish I could excitedly receive gifts. I wish I could confidently schedule a baby shower. I want to be a regular mom. But I’m not, I’m forever and for always a loss mom.

(Written at: 13 weeks, 0 days)

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Pregnancy After Loss

Comparison is the Creator of Joy

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two people holding pineapple fruit on their palm

“Comparison is the Thief of Joy.” This is a phrase that is thrown around a lot, and usually attributed to President Theodore Roosevelt, although that is likely a misattribution according to the internet. The point of the phrase is, if you compare yourself to others, you will likely be disappointed and it will make you feel like shit.

Going through baby loss, I can say 100% yes, this can be true. I spent a lot of my time in 2023 comparing myself to everyone else, and feeling like a complete failure, that the world was sh*t, that I couldn’t get myself the literal one thing I’ve always wanted in my entire life, and that everyone else just seemed to have it better. Then, I realized I was doing this toxic comparison stuff, and I felt like sh*t even more because, as the saying goes, I was “robbing myself” of joy. Comparison, however, is an extremely normal thing for humans to do. In fact, according to research in Psychology Today, more than 10% of daily thoughts involve making a comparison of some kind.

Recently, I’ve found myself comparing me to ME, though, and I have to tell you, it’s the opposite of a thief of joy, it’s almost the only thing that can CREATE joy for me now.

You may remember a few days ago, I talked about how my only experience with pregnancy resulted in horrific trauma and loss. Therefore, it’s only natural that I compare my current pregnancy with my previous one, since it’s my only point of reference. But every time something goes well that did NOT go well last time, I feel extreme joy and relief. Comparing my own personal past experiences to my present ones is the only thing that seems to bring this reaction.

In November 2022, I had an appointment for a 12-week scan. This is the first scan where they do an abdominal ultrasound, so they advise you to have a full bladder. What they did NOT advise me, was that they were running 2.5 hours late. Without going into the details, I will just say, it did not end well. Holding my bladder eventually shifted my organs so that I could no longer go to the bathroom. I ended up leaving the hospital without the scan because they closed for the evening, and then I ended up back in the hospital on the emergency triage labor and delivery floor later that night to try and empty and re-shift my organs back into place. It was traumatic, to say the least. The next morning, I was BACK at the hospital to try to have them perform the scan again. Again, I was greeted by a new receptionist who told me to have a full bladder, to which I just laughed, then I eventually did get the scan by an ultrasound tech I had never seen, in a dark room where she did not speak. I was terrified the whole time that the events from the night before had killed my baby, and I just waited and waited while she didn’t say anything to me until I finally asked, “is everything ok?” And it was. Then the attending doctor, who I had also never seen, came in and said “everything looks good” with no acknowledgement of the previous day and night, and they sent me on my way.

Four weeks later, I was scheduled for another scan. This time, I had to go to a different ultrasound facility I had never been to, again with strangers, for an early anatomy scan. I was told an early anatomy scan was necessary because I was ANCIENT, aka 35 years old. Again, I was laid down on a bed in a dark, silent room with an ultrasound technician, and this time, she was having trouble getting the pictures she needed. She kept shifting the bed up, down, angle up, angle down, asking me to shift to one side, lift my legs, do all sorts of things. Eventually, she told me to get up and walk around. This was also when she scolded me for not eating enough breakfast, which you may remember from my post about body image. I was terrified. What was she trying to see that she couldn’t see? I thought some crucial part of my baby was MIA. Again, it turned out everything was fine. But since this scan was done at a different facility, those scan images weren’t in my chart online. When, two weeks later, I had an additional scare that my baby might have spina bifida (she didn’t), my doctor wanted to see the photos from the scan, but didn’t have them. All I could say was that the tech had told me, “everything looked normal.”

When I think about my pregnancy with Maliyah, I usually say it was, “uneventful… until it was NOT.” But then I think about those two scans and I realize, it was kind of eventful. Those stories are just background to say, even before Maliyah died, things were not smooth sailing.

While of course, I wish my pregnancy with Maliyah had been nothing but great memories with rainbows and unicorns, it isn’t true. That also means that every single time something goes smoothly or easily with pregnancy #2, I am floored, and I am overjoyed.  

Last week, I had my 12-week nuchal translucency scan for pregnancy #2, the same infamous bladder-uterus-shifting scan from 2022. I was terrified, but I was mentally prepared. To make matters even more complicated, it was the very first time I was to go back to the hospital where Maliyah died. The last time I checked myself in on those screens, I was pregnant. Then, six days later, I left very NOT pregnant. I was nervous about entering the hospital and having this scan for weeks.

I arrived, and the receptionist confirmed if I had a full bladder. I didn’t of course, because ONLY FOOLS MAKE THAT MISTAKE TWICE. But I lied, and kind of chuckled, and I said, sort of. She said, “ok good, because they’re about to call you.” Now, in my previous pregnancy, I had 4 scans on that same floor and they had NEVER been less than an hour behind, so that comment actually elicited a true laugh from me. I said, “oh yea? What does ‘about to’ mean?” And she said, “you’re next, maybe five minutes?” I went to find a seat with Chris, away from all of the other visibly pregnant people, and I said to Chris, “do you think five minutes means like 30 minutes? Or two hours?” We didn’t believe it for a second. Chris took out his iPad, and I took out my Kindle, ready for the inevitable long wait.

The second nurse who came out to call someone said “Emily!” I didn’t even believe it at first, I actually said it back to her to double check. Sure enough, it was me. We walked back to the room, one I had never been in before and had no traumatic experiences in, and she started the scan. Immediately she found our baby, she talked out loud the whole time to us. “There’s your baby! See baby dancing around?” Immediately she shifted to show us the tiny heart beating away. She took all of the necessary photos, while explaining aloud the whole time what she was doing, she even answered a question of mine. Then, she said everything looked good, but my doctor was going to come in and confirm. Within five minutes, my actual doctor walked in (a familiar face! Gasp!) and she knew my name, she knew I had seen my other doctor the week prior, she answered my questions, and she even knew the next time I was going to see her. We left the appointment feeling happy and relieved, and we were HOME within one hour and fifteen minutes of our appointment time, even taking the cross-town bus.

Later that night, Chris asked me how I felt. He was there with me at the scan, so of course he knew we had gotten good news, but he wasn’t just asking about the baby, he was asking about ME. It was only then that I reflected on why I felt so great. It wasn’t just the baby, it was the experience. It was a full 180 from our last experience at that same scan. There was no wait. There were no unanswered questions. The tech was kind and immediately showed us our baby and heartbeat without prompting. She was friendly. Then we got to have face time with our actual doctor. I must admit that it was just a happy coincidence that my doctor was on call there that day, but it made a world of difference. Dealing with a brand-new person every appointment who doesn’t understand the baggage and trauma I am carrying to every appointment is emotionally taxing. To see a familiar face, for the doctor to know the next time I would see her, it felt like I was actually being cared for. It felt like, if I had concerns, I had someone I could call. It felt so much less lonely than last time, when I had checked myself into the triage unit later that night without ever talking to my doctor.

When I reflected this back to Chris, I said how I wouldn’t even have known how amazing that experience was, if I hadn’t seen the polar opposite in my previous pregnancy. While comparison is sometimes the thief of joy, this time, a regular old scan, in comparison to the experience I had last time, was the creator of such an abundance of joy. I left feeling supported, feeling like I had a team, and feeling like maybe, just MAYBE things would go differently this time around.

While I think it’s still unhealthy to compare myself to others regularly, comparing myself to my own experiences can sometimes be a good thing. It’s not just about the results of a test or scan (although those matter a heck of a lot, too), it’s also about how I feel, who is around me, and those pieces of mental health are sometimes just as important. While I don’t love thinking about my previous pregnancy as “bad” and comparing it to the one now as “good,” sometimes when I look objectively, I can see major differences and that’s ok. It doesn’t mean Maliyah means less to me, it doesn’t mean I love her less, it just means I now have a great care team, and that gives me reassurance and an inkling of hope.

(Written at: 12 weeks, 6 days)

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Grief and Pregnancy Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

Invisible Grief

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lonely woman walking up a road filled with shadows of people

Maliyah’s birthday is coming up, which means I’ve been living in the grief and loss community for almost a year. It seems crazy to think how long it’s been, and it’s been a blur.

There are so many terms I’ve learned in the past 11 months. A lot of them are medical, like Diluted Russell Viper Venom Time (not related to a snake), but some are death and grief-related. Something that comes up time and time again in this community is the concept of  “disenfranchised grief.” According to WebMD, the Wikipedia of medical issues, disenfranchised grief is when a person’s grieving doesn’t fit in with the larger society’s attitude about dealing with death and loss. There are a lot of examples of this, like when a person’s pet dies, and society thinks it isn’t a “bad enough” loss. Or when someone dies from suicide or addiction and society says that it’s the person’s “fault.” Other examples include loss of something that isn’t a death, like divorce or loss of a job. Society tends to think these things aren’t “as bad” so you don’t have the “right” to grieve them in the same way.

Most people agree that losing a child is REALLY bad. But what if the child is someone who never lived outside your body? Then it doesn’t count.

I sometimes think of late term pregnancy loss as disenfranchised grief, but more often, I think of it as invisible grief. It’s something that no one else sees, both literally and figuratively.

I feel like the one good thing about typical grief is that it brings people together. There’s a whole concept in Judaism called shiva where people come together for seven days to discuss their loss and accept the comfort of others who maybe knew the person who died. But in the case of late-term pregnancy loss, no one knew the person who died. No one met her. No one saw her, not even in photos. Some people may share photos of their uterus but that’s not really my style. In a lot of cases, people didn’t even know Maliyah existed!

I recently went to a work conference that was full of land mines. I work for a membership organization with more than 1500 members. I never announced my pregnancy to the members, and there was no live birth, so most of them had no idea. The last time I saw most of them, I was pregnant, but in secret. There were so many conversations that began, “how was your past year?” Or “it’s been so long! What’s new?” Or my favorite, a person who called across the hall to me, “everything good, though, right?” NO. Everything is NOT good. Everything is shit, actually. But you can’t say that to tangential colleagues, especially because nobody knew what happened, nobody knew the person who died, and some people wouldn’t even have considered her a person.

It’s less hurtful to have people ignore or not see your grief when those people are minor characters in your life. It’s a lot worse when it’s close friends or family. The hard part is, I know it’s not intentional, but it’s hurtful nonetheless. And since the grief is invisible, the hurt is, too.

I had an example of this at Christmas. I brought Maliyah’s ornaments with me to Texas, where I was celebrating Christmas with my in-laws. We celebrated Christmas with them last year when I was 4 months pregnant with Maliyah. Everyone in 2022 knew I was pregnant. Everyone talked about it a LOT.

When I arrived in Texas this year, I told my sister-in-law that I brought ornaments to hang, and she instructed her son, my 15-year-old nephew, to hang them. He took one look at her name and said, “who’s Maliyah?”

Here’s the thing, I know he’s a kid. I also know that it’s quite possible her name was never spoken in their house. But if she was alive, he’d know who she was. They’d be first cousins! They are first cousins. And yes, it’s very possible he never even knew she was born. I know people are weird around death, dying, grief, and kids. Some people think they can’t handle it. And I get that he never met Maliyah, but he knew all about her the year prior when she was in my body, and the next year… POOF. No recollection.  When he asked who she was, I just said simply, “remember how I was pregnant? She was my daughter who died.” End of conversation. I could have ignored it, but he asked a direct question and I wanted him to know the answer. For me, the hole in the family is gaping. For others, it’s not even visible.

I held off on publishing this post until I broke the news about my new pregnancy because now, Maliyah and my grief about her death is even more invisible. I follow enough loss accounts on social media to know that this is common. I know that most people believe a new pregnancy “fixes” the previous loss. This seems absurd if you think about your baby as a person. No other humans are just replaceable or interchangeable.

I saw a post on Instagram that said, “this is how it would sound if we responded to every loss the same way we respond to baby loss.” There were six slides after that, where they went through different scenarios, like if someone’s father died, and someone said, “it’s ok, you can always find another dad,” the way people say, “you can always have another baby.” Or if someone says their sibling died, and someone answered, “at least you know you can have siblings” the way people say “at least you know you can get pregnant.” There were 4 more examples, equally as disturbing, but equally as true. I heard all of those things.

It was less than one month from Maliyah’s death when people started asking if we had considered “trying again” or if we were allowed yet to “try again.” The “again” word, as if we could just replace Baby 1 with Baby Version 2.0.

My grief has become more invisible as people now think of Maliyah as a stepping stone on the way to our happy eventual family. I heard concrete examples of this in the reactions I heard from people after announcing our new pregnancy.

There is an added wrinkle here, which is that to others, there is an extreme sense of déjà vu. My new pregnancy is less than two months off from the previous one, so when we told family before Christmas last year, then this year we were at Christmas again, announcing a pregnancy again, it seemed like Groundhog’s Day. I understand that it seems repetitive to others, and that it seems like the same thing.

To me it’s not. It’s a new pregnancy. A different baby. I repeat a mantra to myself every single day, “different pregnancy, different baby, different placenta, different outcome.” But to outsiders? It’s the same.

When we started to share the news of this new pregnancy, we received messages and phone calls, people saying they were praying for us, that they can’t wait to celebrate with all of us together next year, including the new addition. But, they said the exact same thing last year. Same prayers. Same hopes for a Christmas with a new addition. And then there was no new addition. And no mention of her whatsoever. Nothing. All I saw in church at Christmas was the baby in the row ahead of me, and the baby missing in our row. But to everyone else, they saw the same old Emily and Chris, with no living child and the same possibility of one growing.

People like to look forward, especially when the present is uncomfortable. People like to have hope and belief that things will improve. But for me, I need to hold both. I have the loss of Maliyah in my mind still, and I always will. Of course, I hope for a different-looking holiday season next year, but I also hoped for that last year, and I didn’t get that, and no one acknowledged that. I didn’t forget last year, it was only a year ago! The “yes, and” is STRONG in my head, like the dialectical thinking I mentioned last week. Yes, I’m pregnant. Yes, I may have a baby next year. AND, I still have a dead one. Forever. And I remember what everyone said last year. The hopes and the excitement that people seem to have forgotten. I haven’t forgotten.

I had a full breakdown on Christmas Eve. I explained to Chris how I know people don’t think they have memories with Maliyah because she was never outside of me, but I think of all of the times I had with friends and family when she was with me as memories I have with her.

I have 150 days of memories with her. 150 days of memories of her. I have 150 days that I still think about. But no one else does. It’s strange to feel that those memories are completely invisible to others. It makes ME feel invisible. I’m working on this feeling, trying to feel less invisible, or make my feelings more visible so it’s less lonely. This blog is part of that. I’ll take you with me, whether you like it or not.

(Written at: 11 weeks, 3 days)

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