Chemical Pregnancies are Losses Too

Chemical pregnancies are losses too. I say this because until I had a chemical pregnancy I didn't understand this. To me, it seemed not much different than the disappointment of many negative pregnancy tests followed by the arrival of your unwanted cycle. No baby. Disappointment. Same thing right?

But, it's different. This I can say for certain now.

My husband and I have been trying to have a second baby for 3 months now. Last month, I got pregnant. I know this because I felt pregnant: slight nausea, uterine cramping, lack of energy, ovary pain...and I just felt pregnant. I've been pregnant before so I don't think that's too presumptuous to say. Then we got a positive pregnancy test. We were ecstatic!

This pregnancy was a little different than the last. There was no implantation bleeding or nipple soreness like last time (which not everyone has either of those). I've heard that every pregnancy is completely different and I was looking forward to experiencing this truth.

We waited until I'd gone to the OB at 8 weeks to tell our families last time. I was planning on the same thing this time. But we were so excited! We couldn't wait. Especially my husband was excited to tell. And I was excited that he was so excited. We had decided to tell the family over FaceTime since the in-laws live in California and, while my parents are only 2 hours away, it would have been a few weeks before we'd see them. We wanted to get a big brother shirt for my son and have them notice it during our FaceTime conversation. So, after my 9-5 shift at the ER, I picked up my son, and rushed to the baby store. They didn't have one exactly his size but I figured he'd grow into it and it would do the trick. I couldn't wait to get home. I'd already told my mom we would be calling her that night. I was so excited!

I'm a paranoid person with a lot of medical training. So I took another pregnancy test to be sure before we called our families. I was now over 5 weeks so the positive would be strong, based on what had happened in my first pregnancy. So no need for  the whole first morning urine jig. I'd test, see the positive, then we'd call the parentals.

But it was negative. One line and stark white where the second was supposed to be. I was so confused.

I had heard of false negatives. Was this it? Should I have used the first morning urine after all? No, I knew, it should be a strong positive by now. The hormone doubles every 48 hours. My heart sank. I didn't want to accept it yet but that meant...I was going to miscarry. It was a chemical pregnancy. But I still held on (because logic and pregnancy hormones aren't often friends). Maybe it was a false negative? A friend advised me to send the hubby out for another test. That sounded good. No way I could sleep without knowing for sure anyway and two false negatives would be unheard of. I was already a sobbing mess.

I went to the bathroom and got my answer before I ever asked the hubby to go. Blood.  I still have 6 months left until I'm an MD but I know what that means. "Inevitable abortion" is the medical term. Or a "chemical pregnancy" or "early miscarriage" colloquially. But to me, the mother, it was a loss.

That's all I felt. Loss.

Then the cramping started. It hurt. Emotionally and physically. I wanted nothing but to curl up into a ball and cry. My husband is wonderful but he didn't get it. He was disappointed too. He kept saying that. But I wasn't just disappointed. Even though that would've been the "normal" response, I guess. Disappointment, after all, was what I imagined I would feel if I ever went through this. I was wrong. It was more than disappointment. I grieved.

My son crawling all over me is usually a joy, one of my greatest joys. I love his hugs, kisses, smiles. I love how he's a momma's boy and prefers me over everyone else. But I felt fuzzy, numb, angry. I didn't want him. I wanted to be alone. To wallow. To cry. My husband was loading firewood. I was angry because he left the baby with me. He didn't understand because I NEVER mind being left to take care of my son. But I wanted to stop being crawled all over. I wanted to be left alone. I wanted to curl up and cry. And sleep.

My husband could understand the physical pain. He's always so much better at making me take something before I let pain get horrible. He gave me something strong I had left over from my son's birth. I took it. I cried, nursed my son in bed next to me, cried some more then slept, while the he put our son to bed (I almost always put him to bed).

Then came morning. I had to live with myself. I had accepted the loss. I was ok. "It happened for a reason." "Mother nature knows best." The most likely medical explanation was a gross chromosomal abnormality incompatible with life based on how early it was. I was grateful it happened so early. The later, the greater the loss I assume. All these things my husband had told me the night before but I wasn't ready to hear them then. Now, I accepted it all. I was more rational. Less blinded by emotion.

But I also began feeling a lot of guilt (another stage of grieving, I guess). Guilt for being angry the night before at the two people I love most. For ignoring my son when he was trying to play with me. For being so emotional instead of rationally disappointed like my husband. Also, I felt guilty for the loss. Was it my fault somehow? I felt guilty for taking melatonin to try to adjust from night shift to day shift the week before. For getting an MRI 2 weeks before when I didn't know I was pregnant. For drinking a diet coke one night to survive a 16 hour shift when I was deliriously tired. Could I have somehow harmed my unborn child?

Today (2 days later), this guilt has subsided. I know that my role in this was minimal to none. Chemical pregnancies are common. All I can do is next month avoid all these things I fear may have harmed my unborn child. And try again. I am ready to try again. And, from what I have read, that is ok to do. 

I share this not so glamorous moment of my life because I think it's important for us women to be real with each other. To share our struggles so that the standard of motherhood is not so ridiculously high that we all feel like failures. Because there are many moments where that is exactly what I feel. Overly emotional and a failure. 

But it's ok to be emotional. It's ok to grieve differently than a man. I wish I had someone telling me this while I was going through this. Telling me that it was ok. That this was what I needed to do to move forward. So, this is my message: Grieve.  Cry.  It's ok to feel loss in whatever way you need to.

How Motherhood Changed Me

Having a baby...it opens something inside of you.  It's almost like the world splits in two, you're so open.  All different sorts of things can rush inside of you, can fill you up.  Some women fill with sadness...it's hard to explain. Loving something so much--you're not prepared.  It's so big, so ancient and animal.  It's terrifying...It can make you feel crazy.
                                                                           ~The God of Animals by Aryn Kyle

Before I had a baby, I was a type-A student.  In high school, I actually read textbooks and studied.  I was that annoying kid that would ruin the curve.  I didn't feel satisfied with getting all A's.  I wanted all A+'s.  (I swear I wasn't a pompous jerk...I was never in your face.  My parents are first generation immigrants so the pressure to achieve was very strong.) And, I was blessed with a brain that had the capacity to learn and a thirst for knowledge so A+'s was what I got.  In high school and college.  Medical school wasn't much different.  There were no A+'s but despite all the terrifying introductory speeches about all of us formerly being the upper crust and how that would no longer be possible, I did it again.  Top student in a few subjects and top quartile overall.  This was what I had been raised to view as success.  I was on track.  My parents were proud, my teachers were happy, and I felt accomplishment and pride in my hard work.

Then, my world shifted.  I was pregnant.

My husband and I wanted kids (a big family at that!)  but the timing was not perfect.  I was in my second year of medical school.  And if you know anything about medical school, you know that the most demanding year as far as hours spent away from home is 3rd year.  I boarded the roller coaster we call pregnancy hormones at this point.  I was up, elated about the thought of a life created by me and the love of my life growing inside of me.  Then I was down, questioning my very ability to be a mother, fearing pregnancy and labor then sleepless nights and active toddler years.... all in the face of the hard months I knew would come before and after my baby's birth.  I also feared losing all of my hard work, of failing, of quitting, of falling off track.

But then time flew (although when I was nearing the end of my pregnancy I would have said time crawled at a snail's pace).  As I began to feel my precious child move inside of me, I bonded in a way that I will never be able to do justice with words.  That baby became my focus.  I spent nights and study breaks organizing, dreaming, decorating, and picking out outfits for the hospital.  I still worked hard during the days (night shifts too) but my heart and focus were already shifting.

Then on a beautiful day in October, my world shifted even further.  The most beautiful (and very loud) baby boy was placed in my arms.  I was a mommy.

This tiny person became the center of my world.

The next days were a blur.  Someday I'll write about all the craziness that went on the week after he was born, but to fast-forward a bit, I spent two months at home, each day fearing how quickly the days were passing.  I dreaded January and starting back to my rotations like nothing I had ever dreaded before (I was one of those kids that actually looked forward to going back to school after long summer breaks.  Not that I didn't love summer but there's always excitement in a change of pace and seeing friends,etc.).

I knew leaving my baby would be hard.  But I didn't know how hard.  I don't remember silly details of that first morning but I will never forget how I felt.  I felt like my world was caving in.  Like I was trapped in some horror movie.  My mom stayed with us the first week and a half so it wasn't that I feared my baby wasn't being taken care of...it was that he wasn't with me.  That base, animal instinct the author refers to in the quote above.  She describes it in horses separated from their foals later in the book:

    After we separated the foals from their mothers, we all stood around, watching their grief.  They screamed and rammed their chests into the fence, running circles in the little pen, colliding with one another in clouds of dust.  Their heads lifted, crying thin, anguished whinnies, slicing the air with their pain...there was nothing {we} could do to make it easier.

I needed to have my baby with me.  The separation felt like torture.   Nothing seemed important in comparison.

I have never been a big crier.  Until I became a working mommy.  I cried on my way to the hospital  every morning for over a month.  And most mornings for months after that.  I lashed out at everyone around me.  Like a wounded animal.  Especially at my husband.  For his love, I am eternally grateful.  His patience seemed boundless at times.  The hugs, the back rubs, the encouraging words...all despite my lashing.  I cried, I screamed.  I claimed that I was being tortured.  I can't imagine what he thought but I honestly was too wounded to care.

I hurt. But who was torturing me? My attendings?  No, they were only pushing me to excellence in a field that deserves nothing less.  My husband?  No, he was my greatest ally.  He was encouraging me so that I could go on not because he was forcing me to continue.  My parents?  While they would have been disappointed if I quit and the pressure to continue was undoubtedly great, I could not blame them.  Then who?  God? No! Even worse, it was a torment of my own devices.

My husband was right (of course).  I had signed on for medicine.  I had wanted a baby during school (granted we were a year early but it really wouldn't be much different intern year). Me.  I wanted all of this.

 That's when I had the greatest realization of all.

I had changed.  Me.  I was different. As a mother, my rosy image of finishing school and working part time once I finished residency had a big flaw.  I had to sacrifice about 5 years of my children's lives.  I would miss out.  And it wasn't until I became a mother that I understood what a great sacrifice that truly would be.  I wouldn't be there to see all the firsts.  These would be reported to me by someone else.  I wouldn't be the primary care giver.  I wouldn't know what soothed my child best, what he ate for lunch (unless I asked), what times he napped, or even what kind of day he had.  All I had was crappy second-hand reports.  I missed the smiles and the coos and the cuddles.  I wanted those.  I wanted them more than what I was spending my days doing.

But I felt stuck.  Expectations (of me, my colleagues, my school, my family) surrounded me.  To quit would waste the time I'd already sacrificed and that was unthinkable.  It was not something I could live with.  So what to do?

After a half a year of torment, I took the boldest step I've taken my entire life.  I stepped off the path.  I decided not to enter residency immediately after I graduate next year.  I am taking a year off.  And for once in my life, that's all I know.  I don't know what lies beyond that...residency?  working from home?  just being a mommy?  I don't know.

But I do know that I get at least a year as a stay-at-home mom.  And I need that.  I need to find myself.  My new self.  My mommy self.  I know she has been in torment these last 12 months.  She deserves a chance to speak.  I need the time to listen.  I don't know what my path will be but I do know that I deserve to find it.