I am publishing this on October 21st, which would have been the due date of our seventh baby. I wanted something to honor and remember the day, and this felt like the right thing. I have written about the births of all of my babies, and I wanted a record of this one as well. It has had a profound impact on me. If this is the first time you're hearing about this, you're not the only one, so don't feel bad. I was extremely private as it was happening (as you'll see from this post), and in the time since, there have only been a couple of times where it made sense to bring it up. That said, I don't mind sharing about it, and I have been pretty open (and long-winded) in this account.
At the end of March, I had an appointment with a midwife for what I thought would be a routine 10-week prenatal appointment. I had found out I was pregnant six weeks before and had been experiencing a very typical pregnancy with all of my usual symptoms: intense hunger and nausea, bone-tired exhaustion, cravings and aversions, itchy skin, and hot flashes.
I had not told a soul I was pregnant except, ironically, the dental hygienist that morning because I didn't want to have x-rays taken. She had received the news with warm enthusiasm, having worked at this dental office for all of the years we've gone there and knowing all of our family. "Is this your sixth?" she asked. "No, seventh," I said and just hearing the words out loud gave me a jolt of anxiety. "No!" she said. "Seven? Really?" She must have picked up on my reaction though because she continued with, "You don't seem very happy about it." "Oh, I am!" I reassured. "It's just that you're the first person I've told, and it just sounds strange to say out loud."
The truth was, Mike and I both had very mixed feelings about this pregnancy. Never before had we put so much time, thought, pondering, praying, discussing, planning, and wondering into deciding to have another child. With all of our other children, it had been a fairly easy decision: Should we have another child? Yes, it feels right. Even with Silas, where it took a long time to feel settled, it wasn't a stressful decision. We just quietly kept it at the back of our minds until suddenly it took center stage, and we both knew it was right.
But this time felt very different. It was an agonizing process. First of all, it felt a little like we were up against the clock: We were keenly aware of our increasing ages, as well as Aaron already being in high school, and Silas already turning one. I wasn't planning on us having children as long as possible, but I did think there might possibly be one more. I have always, always, loved the number seven. I had said, on more than one occasion, that if I ever had six children, I would for sure have one more to get to seven.
But six kids felt like a lot. It is a lot. We were both feeling stretched pretty thin. The thought of having one more felt truly overwhelming on so many levels. And so we waited.
The one thing I feared more than anything else was regret: regret if we didn't have another or regret if we did. And I just didn't know how to move forward.
During this time, I spent time every day just writing down thoughts and impressions and feelings, hoping that over time they would somehow come together in an answer that made sense. As callous as it might sound, I even made a pros and cons list (actually, I framed it more as a pros and pros list because I could see good things coming from either choice). I studied two scripture stories at length to learn how to receive an answer from God: Nephi in the wilderness with his broken bow and charge to build a ship, and the Brother of Jared as he faced two problems prior to crossing the ocean. I also wrote down any quote or idea that resonated with me in this process. Here are a few of those statements:
"When you are living righteously and are acting with trust, God will not let you proceed too far . . . if you have made the wrong decision." Elder Richard G. Scott
"Let us not take counsel from our fears . . . we are each entitled to receive personal revelation." President James E. Faust
"You must learn to walk to the edge of the light, and then a few steps into the darkness; then the light will appear and show the way before you." President Boyd K. Packer
"Revelation comes in small increments over time . . . such communications from Heavenly Father gradually and gently distill upon our souls as the dews from heaven!" Elder David A. Bednar
Mike and I spent so much time discussing this decision with each other. Even though we didn't know how to proceed, it was one of the times we have felt the most unified. We had a common desire and goal, and this gave me a lot of assurance that we would land at the same place.
By November, I realized that we had come to an impasse. We had been weighing the two decisions for months without a clear feeling either way. Like President Packer said, we had "walked to the edge of the light," but now it was time to take "a few steps into the darkness." We couldn't stay in this place of indecision forever. I talked to one of my sisters-in-law quite a bit during this time, and one day she asked me, "Amy, what do you want?" And I said, "That's the problem: I don't know what I want! I just want to try to get pregnant and trust that God will be in control."
Soon after this conversation, I said to Mike, "For today, let's pretend we're going to have another baby. Let's fully commit to this idea and not have any back-and-forth conversations at all today. Instead, all of our thinking and discussing will be centered around the idea that we are going to have another baby." After this little exercise, we decided we would try to get pregnant and leave it in God's hands.
This might sound irresponsible, like, well what did you think was going to happen if you tried to get pregnant? But because of the amount of time and energy we had put into this decision, I truly had faith that God would take the helm on this one. We had not received a clear feeling to not have another baby, so I felt like we needed to move forward with trying and see what would happen. Because we could see the potential blessings from either decision, we felt good about taking this step and trying.
It was quite remarkable: after we had made the decision (the real decision, not the pretend one), we both felt so much peace. We didn't question anything again. We moved forward, completely unified.
And then . . . we didn't get pregnant. And we were both kind of shocked. This hadn't happened to us since we were trying to get pregnant with Aaron. In spite of "leaving it in God's hands," we both kind of assumed that making the decision to "try" would basically mean we would be having another baby.
Not getting pregnant helped us relax a little. I'm always very aware of placement in a school year, and if we had gotten pregnant in November, the baby would have had an August birthday and been in back-to-back school years with Silas (just barely). But once I knew that the baby would be in the next school year, I didn't feel like there was any rush, so we let December come and go without trying.
But by January, I was back to feeling ready, so we renewed our efforts, and on February 13, 2023, I found out I was pregnant with a due date of October 21st. There was immediately this sense of relief because I knew this would be our last baby. The thought of being pregnant once again was daunting, but it was so nice to be able to say, "This will be the last time." With every other pregnancy, there was a teaser of, "There might be one more . . . " But not this time. This was it. Our last baby.
Unfortunately, as my pregnancy symptoms intensified, so did my anxiety. I always get quite anxious when I'm pregnant. I worry about soft cheeses and deli meat and truck exhaust and pesticides and seafood and secondhand smoke. But this anxiety was different. I was less anxious about possible harm coming to the developing fetus and more anxious about how in the world we were going to manage seven kids. Our schedule suddenly seemed more packed, our attention felt pulled in too many directions, and the thought of having a toddler and a baby at the same time while having five other kids seemed like too much.
On most days, I felt the one thing I was trying to avoid: regret. And I just felt so sad and guilty that I felt that way. It seemed like I couldn't give my kids what they needed and have a baby. There was a real heaviness that accompanied those first few weeks of pregnancy, and I took to repeating daily affirmations to try to get myself in a better headspace: "I feel joy with this new life growing inside me. It was my choice to have another baby. I chose it purposefully. I have enough time and love for all my children."
I was dissatisfied with my experience at the hospital with Silas' birth, and that dissatisfaction was strong enough that I decided that if I ever had another baby, I would not do it at a hospital. I'd had my eye on a birthing center for a couple of years, and so that is where I made my first prenatal appointment.
Mike and I went to that first appointment totally carefree. I didn't even have any of my usual anxiety before appointments. As we sat in the waiting room, my stomach started to gnaw with pregnancy hunger (different than regular hunger) and I chastised myself for making such a novice mistake as to not bring a snack.
They drew all of my labs first, and then I met with one of the midwives. We went over my previous birth history. I mentioned that although four of my babies had been delivered without an epidural, almost all of them had been induced. I admitted to feeling nervous about how long I might be pregnant if I had to wait for my body to do it all on its own. I said I should probably just think of this as a November, rather than October, baby. The midwife said there were some more natural ways they would try to initiate labor if it came to that.
We talked about my age, and she said that wasn't a cause for concern at all. She mentioned that her sister also had seven kids and they had just been to Disneyland. I said it was such a relief to hear about someone with seven kids still going on family vacations and such. And she acted like it wasn't any big deal to navigate the world with seven, and that made me feel happy.
She looked over the births I'd already had and asked, "Have you had any miscarriages before?" And I said, "No, which kind of feels a little unusual. I guess we've just been lucky. Blessed, really."
"You haven't had an ultrasound yet, right?" she asked. "Let's get a look at this baby. We just have a little ultrasound here in the office. It isn't super great, but it will let us see what we need to."
I unbuttoned my pants and she said, "Look at you, still wearing your cute jeans." I find it so interesting that I remember her saying that.
She placed the probe on my stomach, and we could see a grainy image of a tiny baby on the screen. I thought I saw some movement, but I couldn't immediately see the pulsing of a little heartbeat like I'd always been able to with my other babies. However, the midwife seemed unconcerned. She kept moving the probe to different angles, saying things like, "I just haven't been able to get a clear shot of the heartbeat" and "this ultrasound doesn't provide a very clear picture" and "your baby seems to be measuring the right size."
But eventually, after trying for a couple of minutes, she said, "Do you mind if I go get Adrienne? She's much better with this than I am? I'll be back soon." She left the room, and Mike and I looked at each other, unsure what to think. This was certainly different than first ultrasounds we'd had with our other kids, but for some reason, my heart wasn't pounding with anxiety, and my emotions weren't beginning to prick. Mike said, "I thought I saw movement." And I said, "I thought so, too." And we waited.
After a bit, the first midwife came back in with Adrienne in tow. The probe was again placed on my stomach, but Adrienne wasted no time in seeing what needed to be seen: "How many weeks are you?" "Ten," I answered. "This fetus is only eight weeks in size." And then the words that I'd braced myself for in every pregnancy but never heard until now: "There isn't a heartbeat. And I'm so sorry to say that this does not look like a viable pregnancy." She wasn't unkind, but her words were very direct and matter-of-fact.
As she continued to talk, things I'd been saying only minutes before came back to me in a rush (Disneyland . . . seven kids . . . overdue) and smacked me in the face. I felt embarrassed, foolish. I had talked like I was going to have another baby. How naive of me. How stupid. I didn't need to worry about getting to 41 or 42 weeks when I wasn't even going to make it past ten.
Even though she was confident in her diagnosis, she still wanted me to have another ultrasound to confirm. This birthing center had a privately contracted ultrasound technician who came in a couple of times a week. She said they could make an appointment for me in the next couple of days, either there or at a hospital.
The problem was, we were planning to go to Goblin Valley the next day for spring break. Should we immediately cancel our trip or go forward with it as planned? Up to that point, I had not had any signs of an impending miscarriage, only symptoms of being pregnant. Adrienne said a miscarriage could take days to weeks before it actually occurred. She said the decision was up to us, but she felt relatively confident that we would be fine to still go on our trip. She then talked through scenarios: what to do if the miscarriage started, how much bleeding was too much, which hospital to go to if we were in the middle of nowhere and needed medical intervention.
It was surreal to be discussing the logistics of a miscarriage when only a half hour before I'd been thinking we would see a thriving little baby and be sent on our way with nothing more than a congratulations.
Adrienne talked to us for a long time. She answered all our questions candidly. She didn't seem in any sort of rush. As our conversation wound down and we made an appointment for an ultrasound at the beginning of the following week, all of the information started to catch up to me. I had been amazingly calm and collected, but all of a sudden a crack opened up. My voice started to shake, and my eyes filled with tears. The two midwives gave us apologetic hugs as we left.
Mike and I had actually driven separately to the appointment since he was coming from work. He said he would just leave the truck there so I didn't have to drive home alone. But even though I was crying at this point, I told him that I was actually feeling okay about things. It was a miserable turn of events, but there was some underlying relief that I couldn't quite understand and needed time to process.
I cried most of the way home and then immediately retreated to my bedroom. The boys knew Mike and I had been somewhere together and that it had taken quite a bit longer than expected. We had not told any of them about my pregnancy, but I suspected that at least Aaron was a little suspicious since I had been resting so frequently.
After dinner, we packed for our trip. Business as usual, but not really. There was a heaviness, a weight, because of what we now knew. And there was a certain amount of trepidation, not knowing if this was really foolish to go out in the middle of nowhere while this was impending.
But foolish or not, we knew that it would feel horrible to stay home and just wait. So we went, and it ended up being the right decision. We had a wonderful time with our boys--going on hikes and exploring Goblin Valley and relaxing. I won't pretend I wasn't tense for most of the trip. Every little twinge or discomfort made me wonder if I needed to race to the closest bathroom. I wore pads as a precaution. Having never had a miscarriage before, I had no idea what signs, if any, my body would give me ahead of time.
Throughout the weekend, the pregnancy/miscarriage was ever-present in my mind while other things jostled around, giving me a distracting glimpse every now and then. Nothing had changed in my pregnancy symptoms: I still had intense hunger and cravings, and when I look back at photos from that trip, I look pregnant.
One thing that surprised me about the trip was how much delight I took in Silas. In the recent weeks, I had been feeling so overwhelmed at the prospect of having a busy toddler and a newborn. Every new development from Silas added another layer of complexity that I dreaded. But suddenly, with the possibility of a miscarriage, it was like I had my baby Silas back. Everything he did was cute and amusing and utterly delightful. I wondered, "Has he been like this all along?" He just seemed like the best baby there ever was, and the love I felt for him was like a tidal wave. It had been there all along, but I had been holding it back because of fear. Now the dam was released, and it was pure joy to follow him around and snuggle him in my arms.
Thus began the theme for the next few weeks: this push and pull of emotions, contradictory feelings, and intense highs and lows.
Over those few days, a little seed of hope began to poke up as well. True, the baby was measuring smaller than normal and the midwife couldn't find a heartbeat. But maybe my dates were just wrong, making it too early to see a heartbeat. I remembered back to when I was pregnant with Aaron. At my first appointment with him, they checked my HCG levels and then had me come back the next day to check them again. The number was supposed to have doubled, but instead, it had dropped. My midwife told me I would probably have a miscarriage and scheduled an ultrasound for the next day. When we went in, there was a delightful little wriggling baby Aaron on the screen with a strong beating heart.
Having had that experience, I wondered if something similar might be happening this time. Although we had shifted our wording from "pregnancy" to "miscarriage," Mike was somewhat convinced that there had been a mistake.
The day before our appointment for the second ultrasound, we sat down with our kids and explained what had happened. Sure enough, Aaron had suspected I was pregnant. What I wasn't expecting was the way their eyes lit up for just a moment at the prospect of a new sibling. They latched onto the idea of another baby even as I was explaining in the next breath that it wasn't going to happen. We told them right before bed, and as Max said our family prayer, his voice shook with emotion the entire time. Then he cried on my shoulder. These boys definitely had enough love for another baby. It was a tender, but absolutely heartbreaking, thing to witness.
On Monday, we went back to the clinic. My thoughts were a wildly swinging pendulum. On one hand, I thought about how amazing it would be to see a thriving, healthy baby. We would joyfully share the news with our kids. (I knew they were still holding onto the tiny thread of hope and praying that we would get to have this baby.) On the other hand, I had felt moments of sweet relief and release over the weekend. I had felt so thinly stretched, and now it was like I had gained just enough back to make everything feel manageable.
The guilt pulsated through every thought: You're going to still be pregnant as punishment for regretting this pregnancy. But also, You're not going to be pregnant as punishment for not loving this baby enough. I felt guilty for all of my feelings.
When we arrived at the clinic, everything was empty and quiet save for the ultrasound technician. He ushered us into a room and quickly began the exam. It took only a moment to confirm what the midwife had already seen. "Yeah, I'm so sorry," he said, "but this baby does not have a heartbeat." He asked if we had any questions, and that was it. In and out in five minutes.
All that was left to do was wait for the miscarriage to complete itself.
And this, as it turned out, was to be a marathon. If I had known how long it was going to take from the outset, I'm not sure I would have chosen this same course. Or maybe, if I had known, I actually would have because I could have relaxed into the waiting instead of feeling tense every single live long day.
At first, I was sure it would happen within the week. But as I ticked off the days with no noticeable change in my body, I realized this was going to be similar to pregnancy in that I didn't get to have any control over what was going on. I just had to ride it out.
I read every article I could find on missed miscarriages (which is what I was experiencing since I had no actual symptoms of miscarriage before finding out I was not carrying a viable fetus). It sounded like most missed miscarriages happened within a couple of weeks of diagnosis.
But I passed that two-week mark and still, nothing. I felt like my pregnancy symptoms were diminishing somewhat. But at this point, I would have been 12 weeks along, which is when my pregnancy symptoms would typically begin waning. If I hadn't gone in for an appointment, I still wouldn't have had any inkling that anything was wrong.
It was around this time that I purchased a pack of 25 pregnancy test strips. I was desperate for any information. I don't know what I was hoping for exactly, but test after test came up as pregnant, pregnant, pregnant. I would wait a couple of days and then take another one. Pregnant. Wait a couple more days. Take another one. Pregnant. I thought maybe I would be able to detect a fading in the intensity of the line that would indicate the miscarriage was approaching. But no. The line would fade in and out and back in again.
There were also the conversations that happened while I was in this weird limbo. People who had no idea what was going on just talking about regular things that had another meaning to me entirely.
For example, I remember being on a walk with friends. They were talking about someone else in the neighborhood who was pregnant and had been quite sick during the first trimester. Her due date was a couple of weeks ahead of mine. It was such a strange feeling to hear them talking about her pregnancy and thinking, If things were different, I'd probably be telling them I was pregnant right now too.
Or this one: I was at the park with two friends. We were discussing Halloween costumes and whether or not we were going to do a theme this year. I said something like, "We could be the Weasley family, except we don't have a girl." And my friend said, "I guess there's not enough time for you to get on that and have a baby by October," not knowing that I actually had been pregnant with a baby who would have been born in October. And maybe the baby would have been a girl.
When you find out you're pregnant, you start reframing your whole future. I thought about the things that usually happen in the fall (school, sports, piano recital, primary program, Halloween, etc.) I wondered about moving some things earlier (primary program) and some things later (piano recital) to accommodate a newborn. I was adamant to give myself time and not just try to carry on my regular life. The realization that this would be our last baby also brought a certain level of poignancy to everything, and I wasn't going to let myself be distracted by everything that would still be there at a later time.
But once I found out I wouldn't be having a baby in the fall, I had to reframe everything again. Even now, I sometimes catch myself doing something that would have been totally impossible if I was nine months pregnant, and it surprises me how different our life would have been. Even little things, like I realized I probably wouldn't have spent the summer knitting sweaters or socks for myself but would have knit a blanket for the baby instead.
It also changed the past for me. I found myself thinking things like, The last time we had dinner with my family, I was pregnant.
During these weeks, I was in a very uncomfortable No Man's Land. In all of my reading and research and looking for answers, I found a description of a missed miscarriage from Erica Jackson Curran, and it matched my own feelings exactly: "During that month--not pregnant, not not pregnant--I lived like a hermit, avoiding friends and work because I could barely describe what I was experiencing. Was I miscarrying all that time? Or pregnant with a dead fetus? Both things are true, according to Sullivan. 'When you were going through your process, you were both still pregnant and going through a pregnancy loss, both at the same time.'"
When I hit four weeks post-miscarriage-appointment, with still no actual miscarriage in sight, I started to get a little worried. I hadn't had any further communication with the midwife clinic. No one had called to check up on me, and I didn't want to call them. Because they were new care providers for me this time, I had no emotional history with them (except this sad, glaring one). They really didn't know anything about me. I wanted someone I could lean on that had proven their concern and competency in the past. I knew I didn't want to go back to the midwife I'd had with Silas. She was fine, but there wasn't anything particularly better about her than the current midwife clinic. Plus, I was still holding out hope that this miscarriage would happen without medical intervention, and I knew my chances of that were slim if I went to the hospital. What I really wanted was just to go back to the midwife I'd had with Clark and Ian, who I absolutely adored.
The miscarriage was taking so long to happen that Mike had almost kind of forgotten about it. He was surprised when he realized it had already been four weeks. I was in such a weird place mentally, and I was so grateful when he decided to take charge. First he called his aunt, who was a labor and delivery nurse, just to get her opinion on the timeline. She said everything was probably still fine and risk of infections/complications was still low, but it would probably be a good idea to go in and get evaluated again just to be safe.
Then Mike called the clinic where Gretchen (my old midwife) worked. He could just tell I needed a familiar face. Sadly, he found out that Gretchen had retired just a few months before. So finally, he went back to where we'd started and called Adrienne from the new midwife clinic. She said, "We've been wondering how things were going."
And so we went back to the clinic. Adrienne was so nice. She gave us all the time in the world. It wasn't her fault I had only negative feelings about the place. If things had been different, I probably would have loved being cared for by such kind, thoughtful midwives. She said it was fine to continue to wait but reminded me that I did have other options to get things moving if I was feeling tired of waiting. This was reassuring, and I decided to give myself a couple more weeks.
I will also say that as the weeks went on and on without any signs of an end, little strands of hope popped up here and there. I kept thinking, What if, somehow, they got it wrong, and I'm still pregnant? What if my dates were so completely off that the baby was just so much smaller than we were anticipating when I had my first appointment? What if it is still growing inside me?
This might sound like crazy thinking, but I didn't have any physical evidence that a miscarriage was actually impending (no spotting, cramping, nothing). Instead, my abdomen seemed to be growing. It was getting firmer, and I had to carefully choose my clothes each day to try to avoid looking pregnant. (Even doing this, I still had one person ask my mom during this time if I was pregnant.)
A scripture story that brought me a great amount of comfort during this time was that of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead in John 11. I must have read it at least a dozen times over the course of a couple weeks. I was struck by so many things during my many readings, one of which was the way Martha could not comprehend the possibility of what Jesus was about to do. Even though she acknowledged that God would give Jesus whatever He asked, she was still surprised when He went to the tomb and asked for the stone to be moved away. Healing was one thing, but being restored to life was actually impossible. But then Jesus did it because He actually can do impossible things.
Even though I occasionally let myself entertain the idea of this kind of undeniable miracle, it was more of a way to comfort myself through the many days of being in a state of limbo than a real possibility. I was at peace with the miscarriage happening, but as day after day went by, it was like my brain needed to come up with reasons for maybe why it hadn't happened.
During this time, I told only three people. No one had known I was pregnant, so I didn't need to break the news to anyone. But I felt like I needed a little bit of support from someone other than Mike.
The first person I told was my sister-in-law, Brittany, about a week after I found out about the miscarriage. She had been the one person I'd confided in about all of the inner turmoil I was feeling about whether or not to have another baby. She'd had similar conflicting feelings as well after she had her sixth child. She knew that we had decided to move forward with trying to have another baby. I had actually been meaning to tell her I was pregnant but hadn't found a good time. Now I told her about the pregnancy and miscarriage all at once.
You might not guess it given how open and honest I usually am in blog posts, but it is usually very difficult for me to share vulnerable, emotional things in person. I don't like the loss of control I feel in such situations. Consequently, I decided to tell Brittany over Marco Polo. My voice still shook and the tears rolled down my cheeks. I explained the wide range of emotions I was experiencing, and Brittany responded by saying that whatever I was feeling was okay. It was such a relief to talk about it with someone and to have her thinking and praying for me and checking in every week. When I saw her in person a few weeks later, she gave me a long hug. She didn't have to say anything else.
About a week later, I told my dear friend, Beth. She and I have been friends since we were children, and we've carried many hard things for each other over the years. Although Brittany was so supportive, she'd never actually had a miscarriage so couldn't really talk me through the process. Beth, on the other hand, had unfortunately miscarried several babies. One of her miscarriages happened to be very similar to mine, and I was so grateful that she willingly shared details about her experience. A few days after we talked, a lovely little pot of purple flowers was delivered to my door. I thought for sure they had the wrong address, but they were from Beth. Those flowers have stayed on my kitchen windowsill as a reminder of how fortunate I am to have people who love me.
And finally, I told my mom. I'm not sure why it took me so long. Although it had been helpful to share what was going on, I'd also found it very draining. I had to really gear up for it, and I tensed up with the anticipation of something being said that was unknowingly hurtful. With my mom, I knew that this would feel like a loss to her as well because it would have been her grandchild. It was just really hard to share. But my mom was so tender and kind. She had two miscarriages after my twin brothers were born and then was never able to have any more children. She shared details with me that I had completely forgotten about, and having this shared experience twenty-five years apart brought us together in a unique way.
Both Beth and my mom mentioned how extremely painful their miscarriages had been, and all of the articles and posts I'd read said the same thing. I didn't know how to prepare myself for this other than just to make sure Mike was able to be on call to come home when it started to happen.
Finally, on May 2nd, I had the slightest bit of discharge. I wouldn't have called it spotting, but it made me think that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning.
And that's exactly what it was. Over the next few days, I began to experience actual spotting. Under other circumstances, if I had thought I was still pregnant, this spotting would have brought on fear, anxiety and grief. As it was, my overwhelming reaction was relief.
By May 9th (six weeks after my first appointment), things had progressed to actual bleeding with some blood clots. I continued to go about things as normal but definitely tried to stick closer to home.
It was more of the same the next day, but things started to change in the afternoon. For one, I could feel a migraine coming on. My vision gets so messed up when I have a migraine that it's almost impossible for me to do anything because I feel so disoriented. I asked Mike if he could come home, and he did.
I closed all of the blinds and laid down and closed my eyes. Interestingly, the migraine seemed to reverse itself before going all the way, and I could see again. I thought maybe I had called Mike home for nothing. But then, I felt contractions starting. I would not call them cramps. They were actual contractions with a build up where everything got hard and tight, then the peak, followed by a gentle relaxing. It was slightly uncomfortable, like early labor.
At this point, you might be thinking, Hmmmm, this sounds like the miscarriage is about to happen. You should probably just lay down and let Mike take over.
In retrospect, that's exactly what I should have done. But I had a few piano lessons scheduled for that afternoon. And although I was having regular contractions, I was still waiting for the intense pain I'd been warned about. I somehow thought that would be the precursor to the actual event.
So I taught one piano lesson, then another. I was still having contractions but I got through them fine. To be honest, the threatening migraine was still my biggest concern. Through all of this, I still just thought I had time.
But then, in the middle of the third lesson, I was going through another contraction when suddenly, I felt a "pop, pop," and then it was like the floodgates had opened. Of course I was wearing a pad, but it couldn't compete with the deluge that was pouring out of me. I looked down and could instantly see blood seeping through my jeans. My student was in the middle of playing a song. I said a quick, "I've gotta go! I'll be right back" before rushing out of the room and up the stairs.
When I got to the bathroom, my uterus continued to heave and huge clots and probably the gestational sac came out. It was at that point I realized I didn't have my phone with me. I tried calling out for Mike, but he was outside and couldn't hear me. The bathroom looked like a war zone with blood everywhere and me helplessly tied to the toilet.
I didn't know what to do. My student was still at the piano. I didn't have anything I needed. There was no one around to help me. So I did the only thing I could think of: I stuffed the biggest pad I owned (maybe two? I don't remember) into a new pair of pants, left the bathroom in a state of disaster, and went back down to teach the last five minutes of the lesson.
Luckily, eight-year-olds are fairly oblivious, and the only thing my student asked was, "Where were you?" and then we continued on as if everything was fine even though I could feel the undulating waves in my body as it continued to expel more and more and more.
I have never been so relieved to have a lesson end. My student left, and I ran back upstairs. Mike was just coming inside, and I hurriedly called over my shoulder, "It's happening." He felt so badly that he was literally home and available but just completely unaware with what was going on.
Through all of this, I was experiencing only very mild pain--nothing like what my mom and friend had described. The intense gushing blood last for about an hour and a half, and then it tapered off, and I was left feeling depleted, physically and mentally.
The suddenness of the whole event took me by such surprise. I immediately started thinking back to my life over the last six weeks and how naive I'd been about the whole thing. It would have been horrific to have had it happen while we were at Goblin Valley or at church or even at the grocery store. I had no idea. And even though it was not ideal to have it happen in the middle of a piano lesson, I was still in my own home with very quick access to the bathroom. It could have been so much worse.
Maxwell had a band concert that night. I love his band concerts, and I didn't want to miss it. It seemed like I was probably through the worst of the miscarriage, but I actually didn't know. It had surprised me once, even while fully anticipating and preparing for it, and I was nervous about a possible second wave. I felt I couldn't risk it. Mike and my dad went to the concert, and afterwards my dad stopped by to see me. My mom would have been there too, except that this coincided right when she was losing her own sweet mom.
As it turned out, that really was it for the miscarriage. The bleeding continued for several days similar to a period, but there was really only that one episode of intense, constant bleeding. In the days that followed, I felt compelled to seize life by the shoulders and shake it back into reality. It was like I craved being in control. I got braces and started a weight loss course within the same week. I don't think I was trying to erase what had been. It was more like I needed to feel like myself again.
I had an orthodontic consult scheduled for the day after the miscarriage. As the assistant got me ready for a bunch of x-rays, she asked me, "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?" I flinched. The question felt piercing and cruel. "No," I answered without elaborating. "No, there is not." I was no longer caught between the worlds of pregnant and not. I was newly empty.
A few weeks after the miscarriage, Max caught me when I was alone and said, "Can I ask you something?" He wanted to know if the miscarriage had actually happened. I hadn't told any of the boys on the day it occurred, although I assumed they maybe figured it out on their own. "Yes," I told Max. "It happened the same day as your concert. That's why I couldn't come." "Oh. I wondered," he said.
Then he wanted to know more: Did I feel sad when it happened? [Yes, and also, relieved.] Could I see anything that looked like a baby? [No.] Were we done having kids for forever? [Yes, most likely.] Max became emotional as he talked about that little baby and how he already felt attached to it, even though he had never even known about the baby until after it had already died. This sweet tenderness pricked my heart but was also like a balm. We comforted each other, and it was what I needed.
Mother's Day happened on the Sunday after the miscarriage. I woke up slowly as the light gently filtered into my bedroom. Everything was quiet, the boys all downstairs making me breakfast. One by one, I thought about each of my kids, separately, individually; a unique, intense love for each of them. Aaron. Maxwell. Bradley. Clark. Ian. Silas. The gratitude I felt was overwhelming. What a gift to be their mom and to know each of their personalities, interests, and dreams.
This pregnancy was so fleeting. It ended in the spring, just as the new, bright green leaves were emerging on the trees. Now it is autumn. Those same leaves are now burnt red and fiery orange and shining yellow. The seasons have changed, and I am changing too. As the months have gone by, I've realized that this short pregnancy is now a part of who I am. It has colored my daily thoughts, the interactions I have with my boys, the hopes I have for the future, and the empathy I feel for others. It has shaped my motherhood, just as each of my other children has. I feel different because of it.
I am honored to carry it with me for the rest of my life.
