I was born on my dad's 26th birthday. He always sort-of-not-really jokes that I stole his birthday from him. But for me, it makes the day a thousand times sweeter that I share it with him: joint birthday dinners, shared birthday phone calls, double desserts, and the knowledge that I have an indisputable leg up on my siblings in the favorite child category. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
But this year, I found myself apprehensive about this particular October 30th. I think that as I watch my dad's disease progress, as I see his body begin to fail him, I am forced to come face to face with the reality that my birthday won't always be a shared day. The thought is unbearable to me, and yet there it is, the truth of it staring right at me, coming closer every year.
And so, this year, I found myself wishing the day wouldn't come. The week leading up to my birthday I remember half-wishing that one of my children had been born on my birthday too so that even when that terrible day comes I would still share it with somebody.
This season of anticipatory grief is a difficult one. The last couple of weeks I have found myself tired and distracted, even feeling unwell at times. The night of the 29th I was feeling so unwell that Ben even commented on whether or not I might be coming down with something.
I woke up on the 30th with a resolve to face the day with courage, to live in the moment, and to enjoy it. Ben had planned to bring lobster home for dinner, the kids had gifted me my favorite coffee beans from Starbucks, and we would be pumpkin carving that evening.
But, as I tried to enjoy my coffee that morning, I found that with every sip I grew more nauseous, much like the night before. As I sent the kids off to school, a thought I had been shooing away since the night before came back again. Could there be another reason for my exhaustion and nausea?
No, there couldn't be.
After I gave birth to Caleb, I had my tubes tied. That's sort of a personal thing to post on the internet, but there it is. People used to ask me after I had Caleb when the next one was coming and I always answered without hesitation, "No. No more." Some would say, "You never know..." to which I always replied, "Sometimes, you know."
Caleb is my rainbow baby. I experienced a traumatic loss of a baby at 13 weeks before Caleb was born. The day that I saw my baby on ultrasound without a heartbeat, and later miscarried at home in my own bathroom is etched forever into my memory. After Caleb was born and safe in my arms, I knew I never wanted to experience that kind of loss again. And loss aside, I had so many serious medical complications including pre-eclampsia with all of my births that I did not want to put my body through another pregnancy. So I made the decision not to have any more children.
Tubal ligation is 99.9% effective, and typically the most effective procedures are the ones done after a c-section like mine was. And yet I could not shake the feeling of what if?
I drove to the store, bought a test, and came home. I put Caleb down, got him a snack, and went into the bathroom to convince myself that I was crazy. But, after I took the test, and put it down on the sink, I watched as one line appeared. And then, almost immediately another line.
Pregnant. I was pregnant.
What happened next is a blur to me now. I remember hyperventilating, my heart racing, as I stared in disbelief at the test.
It's my birthday, and I am pregnant.
The words "complete shock" are an understatement. I don't know if there is a phrase in the English language that could accurately capture the fireball of emotions and thoughts that were racing through my body as I stared at those two pink lines. Lines I had been certain I would never see again in my life.
After I regained semi-composure I called the doctor. I knew from reading about tubal ligation that pregnancy is rare, but that if you do become pregnant there is an increased risk for the pregnancy to be ectopic.
I spoke with a sweet nurse who told me she had never gotten a call like mine before. She might have been almost as shocked as I was. She told me congratulations, and that this baby must have been meant to be.The doctor sent me for blood work and they told me to expect a follow up call the next day.
Meant to be. The words stuck with me. A surprise pregnancy on my birthday. On the very birthday that I had been dreading for the first time in my life. Not to mention, the baby that I lost three years ago was also a total surprise that I found out about in October. Maybe this was the baby meant to redeem that experience, to give me a surprise in October that I would get to bring home this time. The baby that would make those future birthdays bearable, because it would remind me of real-life miracles.
When I called Ben, he was speechless. I'm not exactly sure how many times he said, "wow" but it was a lot.
Ben was every much as part of the decision not to have any more children as I was. We both had reached a point where we were more than satisfied with three beautiful children, and we were both ready to move on to the next phase of life. Ben took a position last year where he does a lot more traveling for work, and another baby was definitely not in the plan. We both were also worried about my health facing another pregnancy, as Caleb's pregnancy was incredibly difficult, both physically and emotionally.
This was life changing news.
And yet, I told him to be cautious. Let's wait for the blood work and see what happens. I am too familiar with the reality of loss to be confident about anything pregnancy related.
The next day a nurse called to tell me that my blood work had come back, and that my levels were in the normal range for 4-5 weeks pregnant. They wanted to send me for more labs the next day, because if my numbers doubled, that would be a good indication of a healthy pregnancy.
My numbers were in the normal range. This might actually be happening.
Ben and I had a long talk that night about the future. Four kids. We had never planned on four kids. The baby was due the exact same week we had already put down a deposit on for a beach house. We had gotten rid of ALL of our baby things. I had no maternity clothes.
We were overwhelmed and nervous.
Ben asked me if I thought it was a miracle. What is a real miracle he asked me? I told him I didn't know. Is it when God reaches down an intervenes in a situation to make something impossible, possible? Is it when we receive something good that has no explanation? Is this a miracle?
If I get to bring this baby home, I told him, I know it's a miracle. But if I don't, then I don't know what to call this.
There were just so many "signs" pointing to it being a miracle I said. And at that moment, that pesky little creature called hope started to sneak into my heart.
I never meant to let it in you know. Hope. And yet there it was. I found myself hoping beyond hope that this baby had made it where it needed to be and that it was growing healthily in it's secret place.
It was my birthday. Only miracles happen on your birthday, right?
I spent all of Thursday waiting. Friday morning rolled around and I grew more anxious with every hour that passed.
My hcg number, the hormone they were measuring, had been 183 on Tuesday. It needed to be above 360 this time to indicate that the baby was doing well.
My phone rang Friday morning. I answered the call with shaky breath. I had practiced this call in my mind a hundred times over the last three days. Thoughts began to race through my mind.
How will we tell the kids?
How will we arrange bedrooms?
Will Josh be ok moving to the back of the minivan?
Will it be a girl this time? It must be.
Your hcg is at 400! Everything looks great! I expected her to say.
But that isn't what she said.
"Hi Jenny. This is the nurse calling with your results. Your hcg did fall a bit, to 150. The doctor would like to draw blood again in 48 hours. If the numbers stay the same, that is highly suspicious of an ectopic pregnancy and we will need to bring you in. "
"And what if they drop further?"
"Then you will most likely miscarry naturally."
"And do the numbers ever rise again after they fall?"
"No."
"So, either I will need to come in and have the pregnancy removed, or I will miscarry it myself at home?"
"Yes."
And in that short, three minute conversation, that sneaky little hope that had worked it's way into my heart over the last three days, vanished. Poof. Just like that.
That was it. No, "I'm sorry." No, "I know this must be hard to hear." Just, "Please go in tomorrow for more blood work."
I hung up the phone almost as dazed at the moment I looked at those two pink lines.
I walked slowly into the office to tell Ben the news. He was as stunned as I was.
"They're sure?" he said.
"Yes. They're sure. There will be no baby."
At that moment I felt a strange mixture of emotions. Sadness at the loss of this little life that we wouldn't get to meet. Confusion as to why this had happened in the first place. And yet, also relief that I would not face another difficult pregnancy and that our lives weren't going to be turned entirely upside down this summer. I've been fighting some guilt over those feelings of relief the past few days. If I could have chosen a different ending to this story, I would have. Without hesitation.
But I didn't get to choose.
I am still in the middle of this journey. My hcg came back again on Saturday at 95. The doctor is fairly confident that it was indeed an ectopic pregnancy. It appears my body is resolving it without intervention, but I will be closely watched the next few weeks with regular lab visits. Ectopic pregnancies can be life threatening if they rupture, and can be very unpredictable. I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about how all of this is going to end.
I go back to that conversation with Ben the other night. Was it a miracle? It sure doesn't feel like it. Is there a purpose behind it? I can honestly say I don't know.
And yet, through this entire whirlwind of emotions and dreams that appeared and disappeared in a matter of days, I am as filled with hope and gratitude as I ever have been. I look at my three beautiful, precious children and they are my miracles.
This loss is much different in many ways than my first one. When I lost my first baby, I felt like I needed to have another baby as soon as possible in order to be made whole again. I needed a rainbow baby. I don't feel that way this time. Perhaps because I made peace two years ago with the decision not to have any more children. Perhaps because I know now that rainbows can come in many forms. Nights when my little ones climb into my bed to snuggle during a storm, watching my littlest one shriek with delight at every passing school bus, sharing Eskimo kisses with my five year old, and bedtimes spent reading Little House on the Prairie with my daughter. Moments that remind me of goodness, and gratitude, and hope.
Why am I sharing this story? Well, it isn't easy to share it. Both because I am still in the middle of it, and because the mixed feelings of grief and relief are something I am not exactly sure how to work through. There are days like yesterday, where I wake up and feel glad that nothing has changed and I can get back to the life that I genuinely loved and felt grateful for every day. And there are days like today, when I realize it was exactly one week ago that I looked down at two pink lines and was filled with joy as I was with all of my other babies, and will not get to meet this little soul on this side of eternity and my eyes fill with tears.
But if I learned anything with my last miscarriage, it is that there is power in a story. There is power in sharing the deepest parts of ourselves, no matter how messy or dark or uncomfortable it might be. We never know who we are reaching or who we are extending a hand of hope or comfort to.
I don't know why this happened. I said after my first miscarriage that I could not handle ever losing another baby. I just couldn't handle it. And yet, here I am. I'm waking up every day. I'm getting out of bed. I'm choosing to let joy and hope in, and I believe without a shred of doubt that God is still good. I have wrestled deeply with my faith over the last few years. I have questioned the goodness of God, I have questioned His existence, and I have questioned the meaning of suffering and loss. And even now, I question whether there was any purpose at all in this whirlwind week. But I have felt Him beside me, each step of the way, holding me up, giving me peace, reminding me that I am not alone. And for me, for right now, that's enough. I may not ever understand, but I can rest in the hope that I will get to meet both of my beautiful precious babies someday on the other side of eternity. And until that day, I will soak up and enjoy every single minute with a husband that I love more every day and the three babies that I have the privilege of being mommy to here on earth.
