Ann Douglas, a freelance writer, lives in Peterborough, Ontario, with her husband, Neil, and three children Julie, 8, Scott, 7, and Erik, 5. She was pleasantly surprised last June to find herself pregnant again and agreed to keep a journal of her pregnancy. This is her tragic story.
Monday, October 7
I dropped Erik off at day care in the morning and headed into town for a prenatal checkup with my midwife, Jaylene Mory. As I drove across town, I smiled to myself, thinking how wonderful it would be to hear the baby’s heartbeat again and to talk with Jaylene about my excitement about this pregnancy.
While I was already 26 weeks into the pregnancy, I’d only known since June that there was going to be an addition to our family. Because my cycles have always been less than regular, I simply didn’t have a clue that I could be pregnant until I was nearly nine weeks along.
But once I did find out that I was pregnant — after badly fumbling an initial pregnancy test by peeing on the wrong end, due to nervousness — I was delighted. I felt like I had been given this incredible gift: the chance to experience pregnancy, birth and the joy of parenting a newborn one more time.
After I arrived at the clinic, Jaylene had trouble finding the baby’s heartbeat with the fetoscope. I wasn’t particularly concerned — the extra pounds around my middle have always made it difficult for the doctors and midwives to find the heartbeat using the fetoscope. I was sure she’d find it using the doppler.
She spent a long time looking for the heartbeat with the doppler — and even called in another midwife to listen. After a few minutes, I started crying, worrying about whether something had gone wrong with the baby I wanted so badly.
They tried to reassure me that the baby was likely just in an awkward position — perhaps behind the placenta — and set up an appointment for me at the ultrasound clinic of Peterborough Civic Hospital.
At the hospital, the ultrasound technician put a glump of warm jelly on my tummy and began exploring my stomach with the ultrasound probe. I kept wondering why she wasn’t saying anything about the baby’s heartbeat. After a few minutes, she told me that she needed to get the head of radiology and that it would take about 20 minutes for them to return.
She left me alone in the darkened room, with not even a Kleenex box in reach. The tears streamed down my face as the pieces began to fall into place: There was something very wrong with the baby.
The technician returned with the radiologist, Dr. Chenoweth, and he continued to explore my tummy with the probe. I tried not to cry while he did the examination, but every once in a while my body shook with a sob that just wouldn’t stay in. After a few minutes, he helped me sit up and told me: “It’s not good news. For some reason, the baby stopped developing at 21 or 22 weeks.”
“What do I do now?” I asked. “What do I do now?” I thought. “I’m supposed to be pregnant, I’m supposed to be having a baby.”
But the dream was over. The miracle fourth baby that I had rejoiced about from the moment that the pregnancy test came back positive was not to be.
“Is there someone we can call?” Dr. Chenoweth asked, putting his arm around me.
I told him that Neil was working out of town for the day, and I didn’t know how to reach him. I asked him to call Jaylene.
Dr. Chenoweth called me into his office when he had Jaylene on the line. I could tell she was crying too. She asked me to come back to the clinic so we could talk.
Somehow, I made my way back across town. I was sobbing as I arrived at the clinic. The receptionist ushered me into an empty room, where a Kleenex box was waiting for me. I made some calls, canceling everything on my calendar for the rest of the week.
After a few minutes, Jaylene came in to see me. I could hardly speak because I was crying so hard. I asked her what would happen next, and she told me that I had two choices: I could either wait up to two weeks to go into labor spontaneously, or I could be induced.
I told her that I wanted to get it over as quickly as possible. I also asked if I had to be awake for the birth, and when she said yes, I started sobbing again.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I cried. “This is too much for me to bear. I’m going to lose it. I’m going to go over the edge and never come back.”
“There’s only one way to get through this,” she said gently. “You have to walk into the fire.”
Jaylene encouraged me to start thinking about what I wanted to dress the baby in and then told me that Neil and I would be responsible for arranging for the baby’s burial or cremation.
Jaylene gave me the name of a local funeral home that waived its usual fees for people in our situation. I could hardly process this information, so I asked her to write everything down for me. It seemed so unreal to be planning a funeral for the very same baby that, up until a few hours earlier, we had been planning to welcome in our family in the new year.
I drove home from the clinic, and then Neil and I went to pick up Julie, Scott and Erik. When we got home, we sat around the kitchen table and I told them the baby had died. Scott, our 7-year-old, wanted to know why she had died and what dead babies looked like. Julie, our 8-year-old, said it was “gross” that I’d have to give birth to a dead baby. Erik, our 5-year-old, said: “Don’t worry, Mom. The baby will still be born after Christmas.”
After we got the kids to bed, I called my friend Janice Kent to let her know what had happened. She came over, and we cried together. Then I also posted an e-mail message to my writers’ group and all of our friends with e-mail accounts so that as many people as possible would know what was happening and I wouldn’t receive quite as many notes asking me how my pregnancy was going.
Tuesday, October 8
Neil stayed home from work so I wouldn’t have to be alone. I stayed close to the phone all day, waiting for a call from Jaylene to let me know that she’d arranged for an obstetrician to induce labor.
Dr. Whatley, our family doctor, called first thing in the morning to tell me how sorry he was to hear about the baby’s death. He offered to be present at the delivery.
I spoke to numerous other people during the day — clients, friends and family members — and basically treaded water until the phone call came at 4 p.m. Jaylene told me that Dr. Sheppard and Dr. Whatley were on standby and that I should come to the hospital at 6 p.m. to be induced.
When Neil and I arrived and I told the nurse I was there to be induced, she asked me if I was happy or excited. I told her I was heartbroken, because we already knew our baby was dead.
Neil and I were given the same room that we had used during the births of our three children. It seemed unthinkable that I was here again under such tragic circumstances.
I’d already had a sedative, and the nurse gave me a sleeping pill so I could get some rest while the gel began to do its work.
Neil and I told Jaylene and Tobi-Lynn Bayarova, the assistant midwife, to go home until things started to move. About 10:30 p.m., I told Neil to go home too. Then I drifted off to sleep.
Wednesday, October 9
When I awoke at 6:30 a.m., I was clearly in active labor. The contractions were coming at two-minute intervals and lasting 40 seconds each. I asked the nurse to give me another shot of pain relief. I remember crying because the contractions really hurt, and I didn’t want to feel any pain. It just seemed so unfair to have to go through the pain of labor when there wasn’t going to be a baby to take home in the end.
It took a long time for the pain relief to kick in, and it only took the edge off the contractions. I began to use the breathing techniques that had served me well during my previous three deliveries.
After a while, the nurse suggested that I get up and go to the bathroom. I did, and the baby fell out in the toilet. I stood up with the placenta hanging between my legs, and everyone sprang into action. They scooped the baby out of the toilet and wrapped it up in disposable cotton towels, and they led me back to the bed so I could deliver the placenta.
Dr. Whatley arrived within minutes and finished delivering the placenta. Then everything was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. He told me that we had delivered a little girl and that she had died because there was a true knot in her umbilical cord. He assured me that it was a tragic accident and that nothing could have been done to prevent our daughter’s death.
I cried when he spoke these words because I had wanted another daughter so badly and because what had happened to her was a senseless accident.
The nurse asked us if we had named the baby, and we told her that we had: Her name was Laura Ann Douglas. She recorded this information on the death certificate and then left us to spend some time with our baby.
At first I was afraid to look at Laura. I thought she would be grossly deformed or badly decomposed.
They brought me my tiny bundle, tenderly wrapped in pink blankets. She was so tiny — 1 pound, 1 ounce and just 13 inches long — because she had stopped developing about 21 or 22 weeks. Despite the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck and the knot in her cord, she was perfect. She had tiny hands and feet and little wee ears. Her skin was baby-soft, and she smelled just like a new baby. But she was cold to the touch, and one of her eyes was half opened and half shut. As much as I wanted things to be different, my baby was dead.
I held her for a while, and then Neil and I looked at her as she lay lifeless on the tray beside my bed. I was overwhelmed with sadness, crying for her (because she had never been held, kissed, nursed and pampered as babies should be) and for myself (because I would never have the chance to hear this baby laugh or cry, to hold her to my breast).
After a while, the nurse told us that we needed to move to the recovery area. That meant handing over Laura for the nurse to take to the morgue. I had second thoughts about letting her go as the nurse carried her away, but there didn’t seem to be any point in delaying the inevitable.
We were moved to a private room. I dozed on and off and was awakened periodically by the sounds of a baby crying somewhere down the hall. Every time I heard the cry of a healthy newborn, I cried for Laura and myself.
As soon as I felt able, I got up and had a shower, and then we headed for home.
When we arrived at home, Neil’s parents were there. I barely acknowledged their presence, choosing instead to stumble exhausted into bed for a couple of hours of sleep.
When I woke at 6 p.m., I was once again overcome by waves of grief. I’m not going to make it, I thought. There’s no way I can live through this pain.
A short time later, two of my sisters arrived. We spent some time talking, and I alternated between crying and feeling numb. I was exhausted. We watched an episode of “Roseanne” to try to lighten the mood, but it had a segment on pregnancy. I left the room in tears.
Neil and I went to bed early, so we could spend some time together. We just needed to be together in our pain.
Thursday, October 10
I slept for a few hours but woke up at 2 a.m., crying. I sat on the floor by the bathroom door, reading the grief materials that the hospital had given me. At 3 a.m., I was still wide awake, so I came downstairs to send some e-mail, and I marked some of my students’ assignments. At 5:30 a.m., I headed back to bed. When the kids woke up at 7 a.m., I got up to help them get dressed and to see them off to school.
We had an appointment at the funeral home in the morning. We decided to have a brief memorial service for Laura on Saturday afternoon. We wanted to have Laura cremated, and we chose a simple plastic urn to hold her remains. I signed all the necessary paperwork. It felt right for me to be making those choices, rather than letting anyone else, even Neil, make these difficult decisions. It was the final opportunity I would have to make choices affecting my child, and no one was going to take that experience away from me.
After the funeral home, we went to an appointment with a social worker. Though Neil was skeptical about the value of social workers, I asked him to come along with me for support. I also wanted him to have the opportunity to talk through his feelings so I could understand where he was coming from.
The social worker was wonderful. She reassured me that the emotions that I was feeling were normal and that I was not going crazy. And she laughed when I told Neil that I wanted to talk with him in six months’ time about having another baby. She couldn’t understand how I could magically pinpoint six months as the time to have this discussion.
I was so glad we’d had this opportunity to express our feelings about our loss and to broach a subject that seemed like a loaded bomb: the idea of having another baby. I told Neil that I knew I wanted to have another baby and that I’d go get pregnant in a bar if he wasn’t willing to participate in the process! And I was only half kidding.
I knew that I desperately wanted to be pregnant. I needed to be pregnant. But it seemed so disloyal to Laura’s memory to be thinking these thoughts the day after her birth/death. But from what I had read in my stillbirth books and from what I had learned from talking to other moms who had gone through the experience, it seemed to me that the only path to healing would somehow have to involve having another baby in our lives. The challenge would be to make Neil understand why it was so important to me.
Friday, October 11
In the morning, Neil and I went to see the administrator of the local cemetery. The fellow who worked there showed me the ugliest, tackiest urn imaginable, priced at a mere $700. He also mentioned that the plastic urn that the funeral home was going to supply might fall apart over time and that this was something we should consider if we were intending to move Laura’s remains at some point.
I was furious. It seemed like he was out to exploit our grief for personal profit. I reached my breaking point and told Neil that I’d wait for him in the car.
Neil and I visited the cemetery and attempted to make a decision about where to bury our baby. We had two sites to choose from: a spot adjacent to a school playground and a quiet spot next to a maple tree. I felt strongly that I didn’t want to be looking at other people’s children in years to come when I visited Laura, so we chose the spot near the maple tree and then we went home.
When the kids came home from school, I took them to the florist so that they could pick out some of the flowers for Laura’s bouquet. The minister who would be conducting the service, Rev. Louise Graves, had suggested that we do this as a way of getting the kids involved in the funeral rituals.
Saturday, October 12
I wrote the following tribute to Laura, and it was read at her memorial service in the afternoon:
Dearest Laura —
When I found out back in June that you were coming into our lives, my heart celebrated the fact that I would once again have a baby to nurture and love. For me, babies have always been sheer magic: warm, wonderful beings who bring joy and laughter to their families.
My heart breaks today as I begin to say goodbye without ever really having had the chance to say hello. As my tears stream down, I think of all the special moments that might have been — first smiles, first words, first steps. I ache with every fiber of my body and soul.
Beloved Laura, I hope you realized during those 26 short weeks that we shared how much I loved you and wanted you. And I hope that you somehow know that while I never had the chance to hold you in my arms and nurture you at my breast, I will always cherish you in my heart.
Thursday, October 17
It seemed so unreal as we drove into the cemetery. It was a beautiful, crisp autumn day — not the kind of day you would expect to be burying a baby. But as soon as I saw the cars lined up near the plot which we had so painstakingly picked out the week before, I knew that this was all too real.
As we stepped out of the van — the van we had purchased so that we would have room for this beloved fourth child — we were immediately greeted by friends and family members.
I talked with people and was comforted by them. As I looked over one friend’s shoulder, I saw the funeral director holding the tiny royal blue velvet bag containing the humble plastic urn holding our baby’s ashes. The tears came again.
We gathered at the gravesite, where bundles of flowers lay. Rev. Graves spoke briefly, saying all the usual things, but my mind wandered as I once again contemplated our loss. The two-foot-deep hole in the ground confirmed that our loss was real, as did the mound of dirt that was silently waiting to bury this precious person whom I had nurtured in my womb for 26 weeks.
Then it was time for the balloons. Our minister had suggested that we release balloons during the service as a way to get our children involved in saying goodbye to Laura. She explained to the others attending our service that Julie, Scott and Erik had decided to give Laura balloons so she would have something to play with in heaven. The children let go of the balloons, which blew over my shoulder and into the clouds behind me.
Rev. Graves took a handful of dirt and made the symbol of the cross on the tiny blue velvet bag. Then the funeral director carefully lifted the tiny bundle and placed it into the grave.
I took a handful of dirt, got down on my knees and gently sprinkled the dirt on the tiny bag. Then Neil did the same.
The service ended shortly after that, and we spent a few minutes comforting and being comforted by our family and friends.
We drove out of the cemetery and headed home to begin the rest of our lives.
Friday, October 18
This afternoon, the blues swept in again. After feeling semi-human all day and reaching out for support to a friend who lost her baby boy five years ago, I started to feel dreadful again.
I dropped Julie off at gymnastics at 5:30 p.m. and decided to swing by the cemetery to visit Laura’s grave. While I had been worried that I wouldn’t be able to find the unmarked site, it only took me a few seconds to spot the mound of flowers. Underneath the flowers were the two squares of grass that had been sitting on the mound of dirt the day before. They were now pieced back together, and it was almost impossible to tell that just a day earlier there had been an open hole — an open wound — into which our daughter’s remains had been placed.
The cool autumn air scooped up piles of leaves from the maple tree near Laura’s grave and tossed some alongside the pile of flowers. Will yellow leaves cascading along the ground ever look the same to me? I don’t think so.
I didn’t spend long at Laura’s gravesite. It was getting dark and I was feeling alone and vulnerable. But I took a few minutes to once again consider our loss and to ponder how much I had wanted this precious little baby.
Neil made dinner, and we ate by candlelight. He was feeling sad about the impact the loss was having on his parents, and we talked about funerals, graves and other equally cheerful things. When we went up to bed, I was overcome by waves of sadness. I told Neil how cheated I felt that our surprise fourth baby had been so cruelly taken away. I shared my worries that my fall down the stairs in late July might somehow have contributed to Laura’s demise. And I sobbed as I once again realized that my womb and my arms were emptier than I had ever thought they could be.
Saturday, October 19
In the morning, I talked to Neil briefly about the conflicting information I had been given about getting pregnant again. Some people are telling me to wait two to three months/cycles. Jaylene suggested that I wait “until the warm weather returns,” six months from now. And I’m torn between wanting to get pregnant today (although that is clearly impossible) and wanting to wait until my body is in optimal physical and mental condition.
Neil said maybe I was jumping the gun a little: We hadn’t even talked about having another baby. I told him that this was the only thing that was going to keep me sane, the only thing I wanted. He became very quiet. Soon after, he went downstairs to have breakfast, and I got up to have my shower.
Saturday, October 26
This afternoon, Julie and I did the grocery shopping. I felt choked up the entire time. Then the whole family ran some errands, including a shopping trip in Sears. We walked past the baby department, and suddenly I felt like I was going to burst into tears. Neil and I had visited that same department a few months earlier, looking at car seats, playpens, etc. It didn’t help when Erik blurted out, “Look at all the baby stuff, Mom.” I started to cry, and people were looking at me, wondering. Neil apologized for walking past the baby department.
The tears have been coming pretty steadily since. I feel so cheated that I won’t be having a baby after Christmas. I miss being pregnant, and I feel so sad when I think about losing Laura. I can still remember what she looked like, lying dead in my arms. The birthing room is supposed to be a place of life, not death. This is simply too painful for words.
Thursday October 31
Neil and I haven’t been getting along well for the past few days. He’s been really grouchy, and I’ve been really weepy.
Scott’s also been a handful both at school and at home. His teacher called last night to let us know that he’s been giving her a bit of trouble. She also mentioned that Scott has written three stories in his journal about Laura and that he voluntarily shared them with the class.
The weather is dreadful. It’s either raining, or it’s windy and cold. Totally depressing.
I’ve been feeling really angry lately. It seems so unfair that Laura died when there are so many babies out there who aren’t even wanted.
The work is piling up all around me. I’ve got some interesting jobs in the works, jobs that would normally have me on Cloud Nine. Unfortunately, with the mood I’m in, nothing really matters. I just want to get pregnant and get on with life.
Every once in a while I feel a little twitch in my belly that feels like a baby’s kick. Then I remind myself that it couldn’t be a baby’s kick because there isn’t a baby anymore.
Janice has been calling me regularly to see how I’m doing. So have some of my other friends. Some people don’t seem to understand that I’m never going to get over the grief I feel about this loss. Yes, I’m coping, and, yes, I’m moving ahead with my life, but I’m sure as heck not “fine.”
I’m also not particularly looking forward to the holidays, or the long winter that follows. We should have been welcoming a baby into our lives after Christmas. Now there’s really nothing to look forward to at all.
Tuesday, November 5
After a few days of feeling relatively sane, I’m feeling dreadful again. I feel so sad that I never had the chance to nurse my baby, to bathe her, to change her, to do the million-and-one other things that go along with caring for a newborn. I can’t even express how deep the longing is right now. I feel like I could cry forever. Everything seems so dark and dreary, and this dreadful weather isn’t helping at all.
I remember reading somewhere that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. Well, today I feel like He really miscalculated. I don’t know if I can handle this heartbreak, and today I don’t particularly feel like trying.
I’m also mourning the loss of my innocence. I can’t imagine that I’ll ever enjoy life to the same degree as I did before October or that I’ll ever be able to say to anyone (as I did the Sunday before Laura died): “My life is absolutely perfect. I couldn’t be happier.” Those deliriously happy times are clearly behind me now. Even the thought of becoming pregnant again isn’t a particular comfort to me right now. All I want is Laura in my arms, and by a cruel twist of fate, that’s the one thing I can’t have.
Thursday, November 7
Unbelievable. It’s been a month since my world fell apart. In some ways, it feels like it happened just yesterday. In other ways, its seems like this loss has been weighing heavily upon my heart forever.
I managed to do a ton of work today — necessitated, in part, by the fact that I’m dreadfully behind — but tonight when I sat down to relax and watch TV, the emotions came swarming back.
I got down Laura’s picture to take another look at her. It’s the first time I’ve looked at the picture since we left the hospital. She was much redder, much deader looking, than I remembered. Part of me wishes I hadn’t looked at the picture, but I had a burning desire to remember what she looked like.
I hate Christmas commercials. I don’t feel like having anything to do with the holiday season. It’s just too painful. And when I think of the emptiness that I will feel when Jan. 11 rolls around and I don’t have a baby — well, it’s simply too awful to think about.
I hate the weather. I hate this time of year. I hate the months of winter that lie ahead of me. I hate the fact that I’m not pregnant. I hate the fact that other people are. I hate the fact that my baby died, and I can’t do a damned thing about it. I hate the fact that I have a million things to do, and I haven’t had time to get to the cemetery this week at all. I hate the fact that my heart is still breaking. But most of all I hate the fact that Laura died.
Why am I feeling worse now than I have in weeks? What’s the point of feeling excruciating grief again, weeks after the fact? Haven’t I cried enough? What sense is there in these emotions? Nothing’s going to change. Nothing’s going to bring back the baby I wanted more than anything else.
Monday, November 18
Last week went well. It’s the first time I’ve felt “normal” since Laura’s death. While I still have teary moments when I think about what I’ve lost, I’m starting to look forward to the future.
I’m more than a little obsessed with conceiving. I’ve bought a book on fertility and a thermometer.
Tuesday, November 19
Laura’s gravestone has been installed at the cemetery. When I arrived to visit her grave, I almost did a doubletake. It seemed so strange to see her gravestone lying there. It’s small and plain. No fancy lettering, just her name and the date of her death. I feel better now that it’s been installed, but it also makes things seem so final.
Thursday, November 21
Yesterday marked the six-week anniversary of Laura’s birth and death. In some ways, it seems like it was only yesterday that this little person passed through our lives. In other ways, it feels as if this dreadful sense of longing and aching has always been with me.
I felt quite sad last night and spent a considerable amount of time on the Internet, chatting with other women who’ve experienced stillbirth, miscarriage and neonatal loss. When I finally went to sleep, I had a nightmare about being surrounded by pregnant women everywhere I went. I felt so alone and so heartbroken.
This morning, I got my period. At first I was really happy, realizing that this means that I can get on with the business of trying to get pregnant. But then I started to feel really sad. The end of postpartum signifies the final chapter of a pregnancy. My pregnancy with Laura is now truly behind me, even though my due date still isn’t here, and my baby will never be here. It’s almost as if my body is moving on, but my heart is still having a hard time letting go.
Saturday, November 23
After weeks of feeling relatively sane — weepy at times, but relatively calm and in control — the deep despair came back tonight. I sobbed again, not just silent tears dripping down my face and burning my cheeks, but sobs.
It’s so unfair that I am not pregnant anymore, that I’m not able to enjoy the magic of looking forward to having a baby in January. The entire process of getting pregnant seems so scary: What if it doesn’t happen right away? What if it doesn’t happen at all? What if it does happen and something goes dreadfully, terribly wrong again?
I ache so deeply, and every time my mind wanders I can see Laura again: lying there limp and lifeless on the tray in the hospital.
It’s bad enough that the poor little thing was born dead. But to be born in a toilet is the ultimate indignity. I’m so angry about the way things went with this pregnancy. What was the purpose of having her dash through my life for a few short weeks, if I was not to be allowed to take her home to love forever?
I feel at times like I could cry forever, like there’s no end to the deepness of this sorrow. And tonight I feel so alone. Neil’s gone out to play hockey with some friends, and it’s too late to phone anyone.
I don’t know what the purpose of this pain can be in my life, other than, perhaps, to make me appreciate each day to the fullest and to cherish the three children that I have been given.
Wednesday, November 27
This afternoon, I had the chance to speak with a woman who recently lost her 9-year-old. Her daughter had experienced a multitude of health problems over the years, but her death was still sudden and unexpected.
I was impressed by the woman’s strength. Despite the fact that she lost her only child — her whole family, actually, as she was a single parent — she’s still so full of life. She told me that her life is really rough right now — most of the time she can’t remember if she’s eaten a meal or not, and she finds it very difficult to run even the most routine of errands — but she’s a survivor.
We laughed and had a wonderful talk. A few weeks ago, this would have been unimaginable to me: two women who just lost children laughing while they talk to one another. How unthinkable! But I think that once you’ve suffered a loss such as this, you’re even more aware of the beauty and joy in life than ever before — although the beauty is tinged with sadness. When I hung up the phone I felt uplifted and more certain than ever that I will survive this awful time in my life.
Friday, November 29
Yesterday was my six-week checkup. It actually happened at seven weeks, due to scheduling problems. I was in tears a few times during the appointment, but basically the session was very affirming. Dr. Whatley assured me that what had happened was “non-recurrable” and that I hadn’t done anything to cause it. He also gave us the go-ahead to try to conceive again.
I’m going to have to keep reminding myself that it takes time to get pregnant, although it’s hard to be patient when you’re as obsessed about something as I am about this.
I did some Christmas shopping last night. I was dreading being out in the malls, but I got through it OK. The stores weren’t too crowded, and — thank heavens — I didn’t run into any newborn babies or visibly pregnant women.
Wednesday, December 4
I feel like I am living an awful nightmare. My cycle is way out of whack. It looks like I ovulated on day 6, and now, at day 14, my temperature has already started to come down. My breasts are tingling, and I even had a few drops of clear fluid come out of my right breast this afternoon. The sensation was like the letdown you experience when you’re about to nurse. It brought back powerful memories of what it was like to nurse my babies, and a heartbreaking longing to be able to hold Laura in my arms and nurse her, as I never got to do. It’s just not fair that I have to deal with this on top of losing Laura.
I don’t want to work these days. I just want to sit around and read everything I can about fertility and conception. And then the waves of grief come, and I’m right back to where I started eight weeks ago. I just feel so rotten right now. So full of despair.
Wednesday, December 25
I should be feeling happy, but I’m not. Instead of being able to enjoy the warmth of the Christmas season, I’m feeling really, really blue. I felt sad when we put up the Christmas tree and was in tears when Neil’s mom and dad watched a Christmas sing-along carol service on TV.
Things really hit rock bottom last night when Neil and I couldn’t make love because his parents were here. My fertility signs are all indicating that my most fertile days were the 23rd, 24th and 25th, and we haven’t been able to make love any of those nights. This is the first normal cycle I’ve had, and I want to take advantage of what seems to be the perfect time to conceive. I’m so frustrated I could just scream.
Sunday, January 5
Here’s hoping! I don’t know where things stand yet. I’m at day 14 post-ovulation and my temp is still high. (I almost hate to write that for fear of jinxing myself. I have this irrational fear that if I tell anyone that I think I might possibly by some major miracle be pregnant, I’ll immediately get my period and feel like a fool.) I keep feeling crampy, but so far no blood. If nothing happens by the weekend, I’ll probably break down and take a test. But I’m not going to tell anyone about this for a long, long time. I’ve dragged enough people on a rollercoaster ride over the past three months.
Wednesday, January 8
I woke up early yesterday morning and took my temperature. It was the 15th day of an elevated temperature, and the suspense simply got to me. I did a pregnancy test, and the test was positive. I am so thrilled, but so scared too. What if I miscarry? What if I beat the odds and lose another child to an umbilical knot? What if? What if? There are so many questions passing through my mind.
At the same time, I’m thrilled beyond words to be pregnant again. I’ve already started mapping out the events of this year in relation to the baby’s development (i.e. I’ll be 8 1/2 months pregnant when I go to Marguerite’s wedding; the baby will be born two weeks after the kids go back to school).
I’m trying not to tell too many people because it will make it that much harder if I lose the baby. I’m really worried about the possibility of miscarriage. It’s such a random, unpredictable occurrence. And my recent experience has made me acutely aware that not all pregnancies have happy endings.
I called Jaylene yesterday to share my news, and she was thrilled. We plan to do an ultrasound at eight weeks because apparently the chance of a miscarriage is dramatically reduced if you hear a heartbeat at eight weeks. It won’t be easy for me to go back to the same part of the hospital where I was when I found out that Laura was dead. In fact, it will probably be sheer hell.
Sunday, January 12
Laura’s due date has come and gone. I had a few friends over for coffee and dessert last night, to mark the passing of this milestone. Rather than spending the evening alone, feeling depressed, I decided to spend it with people who care about me and understand the depth of my loss.
As each guest left, I took her aside and whispered the news of my pregnancy. (So much for only telling a few people.) It was so wonderful to be able to share some good news for a change.
I’m still scared to death that this pregnancy won’t last, but my joy at being pregnant is simply too great to keep to myself. It’s wonderful to let a few friends in on the secret. And if my worst fear does come true and I do end up losing this baby, I’ll have a dozen good friends to turn to for care and support.
But I’m trying not to think about that. I’m trying to celebrate the fact that I’m pregnant and relish each moment that this child is in my womb.
