I Had a Miscarriage by Jessica Zucker (classic books to read .TXT) 📗

mutual respect of each other’s strengths. He excels at all things creative, inventive, and playful, which translates into him being a joyful, grounded, and loving father and partner. I envisioned that his warmth and joie de vivre would only flourish with more members of our family, which encouraged us to throw caution to the wind—we were sure we would figure out the logistics somehow. It became a favorite hobby to daydream aloud about how our son would take to his newfound big-brother status, and how the growth of our little family would exponentially expand the love within it. Jointly, we decided it was wise to wait to share the pregnancy news with our son—given his age and his perception of time (or lack thereof)—until my baby bump was too obvious to ignore.

• • •

Preparing myself at work was another story entirely. I am a psychologist who specializes in reproductive and maternal mental health. The reality of my job means that pregnancy is almost always at the top of my mind, though not usually the media version that features glowing bellies and radiant mothers-to-be. In my office, I have instead heard countless heartbreaking stories from women struggling to get pregnant, coping with perinatal anxiety, grieving miscarriages, contemplating terminating pregnancies, selectively reducing multiples, and weathering postpartum mood and anxiety disorders. I speak to women who give birth to babies born silent, left with photos of their dead babies held ever so briefly, and those wrestling with taking ailing newborns off life support. I am with them during some of the most tragic moments imaginable. I listen as these women wonder if it’ll ever be possible to put the pieces of their lives back together after all the wreckage.

Though hard to imagine at the time of my second pregnancy, I was in my fifth year of practice, and as much as one could be, I had grown accustomed to hearing about these situations. After all, I had heard them all while pregnant with my son too. During that nine-month period, I found I had little trouble psychologically separating myself from the pain and risk that comes with pregnancy. Naivete, maybe? Hearty denial, perhaps? But somehow, pregnant for a second time, I felt their stories differently, more acutely aware of the inherent risks that come along with this significant undertaking.

• • •

The early days of this second pregnancy ticked by mostly without event. I broke out my maternity jeans—though slightly earlier than I had with my first pregnancy. Soon, I spent nights tossing and turning with nausea and those initial hints of heartburn. By week seven or eight, I pretty much felt seasick around the clock. Compared to my experience with my son, this pregnancy was a trial in terms of just how ill I could possibly feel on any given day. A small part of me gnawed with wonder about the health of this pregnancy, based on nothing more than how horrid I felt because of it. I tried to reassure myself by thinking about an old wives’ tale, which presupposes that the sicker you are, the more viable the pregnancy. In part because of my continued uneasiness, I was on edge awaiting the day I could receive the results of my forthcoming eighteen-week amniocentesis, an extensive prenatal diagnostic test that analyzes amniotic fluid for genetic conditions, chromosomal abnormalities, and neural tube defects.

Two weeks before I was to undergo the test—at sixteen-weeks pregnant—I went to the bathroom in my dermatologist’s office on what should have been a standard Tuesday morning, wiped, and found cherry-red blood on the toilet paper. Seeing brownish blood discharged during pregnancy can be normal—a sign that old blood, previously stored up, is making way for new blood, vibrant and full of life. But this was different. I knew this was different. And I was alarmed beyond words at the sight of it: I’m not supposed to menstruate while pregnant. This can’t be normal. It just can’t be. Alone in that pink-tiled public bathroom, minutes from having a routine mole check, a wave of dread enveloped me as I frantically reached out to my ob-gyn. “There’s blood!” Her calm but pointed reply included the litany of requisite questions:

“Did you exercise?”

“No.”

“Did you have sex?” she asked plainly.

“NO!”

“Did you do anything differently than usual?”

“NO!” The panic rose in my voice.

My dermatologist remained calm as she sent me on my way to my obstetrician. I went straight from her office to my ob-gyn’s to investigate. She broke out the ultrasound machine and we saw a strong heartbeat. The placenta was perfectly situated, everything sounded normal, fluid levels were as they should be. And so, I went on my way, reassured medically, though not emotionally.

• • •

On Wednesday morning, I felt well enough to head to work. My doctor advised me to do whatever felt best, and so I showered, dressed, added a pad to my underwear just in case, and arrived at my office. I was cautiously optimistic that the day would go smoothly and the crimson-red blood that had sent me into a panic wouldn’t show itself again. I was calm and focused, and somehow mustered a sense of ease as I faced a full slate of patients.

Surprisingly, the day was okay. I got through it and, for the most part, felt good. But on my drive home, my uterus began to tighten intermittently. Like the tentacles of an octopus, strangulating discomfort enwrapped me, dissipating almost as quickly as the feelings arose. I called my dad, a doctor.

“Is it possible to have Braxton-Hicks contractions at sixteen weeks?” I asked.

“I suppose it’s possible,” he replied calmly.

But I knew. I knew these symptoms couldn’t be typical. Even though they were possible at sixteen weeks, I knew deep down I wasn’t going to make it to week forty.

Once I got home from work, I changed into loose-fitting clothes and sprawled out on my bed, vexed both in body and mind.

Later that evening, as the cramping worsened, I asked my friend, who is a midwife, to