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

new pregnancy had arrived, yet devastated by how hastily it had left. How strange, the ways in which the passing of time can be both a comfort and a torment.

The end of my daughter’s short existence spurred on the beginning of my altered, grieving life. So much had changed—and I soon realized how earnestly and readily my soul had begun preparing for another child. Even if I could have gone back in time, I flirted, would I?

• • •

There were many reasons that it wasn’t long before the will I try again? question started looping on high speed in my mind after our loss. It was daily, in fact, that I found myself turning the idea around in my head—and depending on my frame of mind, it was either something that would ignite me or scare me outright. While there was a version of me who wanted nothing to do with being pregnant again, there also existed another part of me that saw a subsequent pregnancy as an opportunity to reset, to rebuild, and to perhaps create the larger family we both now wanted.

We are not going to go down on this note was a mantra my husband and I quipped about, one that playfully got us to put one foot in front of the other even when our collective grief was blinding. Luckily, moments of humor and optimism showed themselves, despite how bogged down we got. We could rely on each other for laughs and a pinch of positivity amid those ambiguous days.

So it was decided: we were going to try again. We wanted to. We wanted to make every effort to not go down on this note. And so, we dared to undertake pregnancy once more. Was this courage, stupidity, denial, ego? I guess I’ll never know exactly, but I think it was a little bit of each.

And just like that, there they were: those two familiar pink lines. A positive pregnancy test. Again. Jason and I were equal parts relieved and petrified. As consoling as it was to be pregnant once more, I carried with me the heavy weight of possibility. Knowing well that what happened to me so recently could theoretically happen again, I toggled between gratitude and fear.

I was grateful it happened so quickly, of course. I didn’t have to experience that gut-wrenching disappointment—that moment of hoping to see a positive test and seeing a negative symbol instead—but getting pregnant on the first try, for me, came with its own set of complexities. It ultimately meant that I wasn’t afforded much time or space to grieve, let alone cope with the realities of what it might feel like or mean to undertake another pregnancy. And even though this was a choice I’d consciously made for myself and our family, it didn’t take away from the gravity of what I was undertaking. I had been pregnant for four months, then without warning, I’d spent the following four months not pregnant, then suddenly there I was, pregnant again.

This third pregnancy rendered me anxious to my core. Being pregnant for a year and a half in total, with a break of four grief-stricken months, was an exercise in mind-numbing uncertainty—an ongoing oscillation between hope and anxiety. I was terrified for four of the nine months and on pins and needles the remaining five.

• • •

Considering how whiplash inducing this whole experience was for me, it wasn’t hard to surmise just how overwhelming it was for my patients. The loss of my pregnancy brought with it a newfound set of professional quandaries, challenges, and most importantly, resonances. Now, to make matters more complex, I was a walking advertisement for pregnancy after loss. My ever-changing body evoked palpable feelings in those around me: envy and resentment, empathy and compassion, anxiety and wonderment, and unabashed hope. My body broadcasted where I was in my journey, and patients couldn’t help but wonder if their experiences might mirror mine, and vice versa.

I disclosed to many of my patients fairly early on that I was pregnant again. Since I’d lost a pregnancy so recently, I wanted to be as forthcoming and transparent as I could with those who would take the news somewhat in stride. What’s more, my petite frame revealed even the earliest signs of pregnancy, so I didn’t want to leave them wondering on their own. Better for them to have the facts, I thought, than to be fixated on guessing about my pregnancy status.

Not everyone would take the news well, though, and I was well aware that my pregnancy might be burdensome for some and outright anxiety producing for others, so I held back from sharing with some patients until I couldn’t any longer. The timeline was intense, after all, and bordered on triggering for some. I understood this, and knew I’d have to prepare myself for some difficult conversations. I didn’t want my news to distract from theirs. I didn’t want my belly to take up more room than it already was.

I vividly remember one particular session with Madison, whom I’d been seeing for several years. Madison had suffered two pregnancy losses—a miscarriage in the first trimester, another in the second—and had struggled to conceive in the first place. Upon walking into my office on that afternoon in early April, she noticed straightaway my larger-than-usual belly and confronted me—not aggressively, mind you, but forthrightly.

“Wait … you’re pregnant again?” She looked at me with incredulity. “Sorry …” she attempted to backtrack slightly. “I just wasn’t expecting that.” She looked down at her feet while she unzipped her jacket and muttered, “It all just comes so easily for you.”

Bump envy is something I hear about daily in my work. Looking in on other people’s lives, it can be tempting to imagine that the path to pregnancy was “easy” for her, and her, and her. For everyone else. It can be tempting to assume that the beautiful, blooming baby bumps around you got there unscathed. But how can we know for sure? We