Not Again...

After 3 Months, My 3rd Pregnancy Fizzled Out

I wanted a clean break. I haphazardly put the 8-week ultrasound photo back in my desk drawer and tried to forget. It was early…you knew there was a chance it would happen again…you have one healthy kid - be grateful. But no matter what logical thoughts I forced into my head, the deep ache of “not again” burrowed into my chest. At my 8-week appointment, the ultrasound showed a classic gummy bear-shaped embryo with a strong heartbeat. This time, the tears sliding off my face onto the crinkly sanitary paper underneath me didn’t embarrass me. I knew not to underappreciate the moment of finding out a pregnancy was viable. I felt at ease, I was now on my second pregnancy post-miscarriage. I’d already had my rainbow baby. This pregnancy wouldn’t have the burden of erasing grief and replacing what was lost.

After momentary joy seeing the ultrasound, I launched into pestering my doctor with questions I knew she’d shake off. “Do I need to do anything special, should I get ultrasounds more often?” I badgered her. Calm as lake water in the morning, she reminded me I’d just had a healthy pregnancy with my daughter, who was about to turn two. She was right. I held the rest of my questions for Google, my doom-scrolling companion, I knew I could rely on to provide rabbit holes for answers.

I know for many people, the 8-week appointment is THE appointment. If their doctor detects a strong heartbeat on the ultrasound, they leave the office with confidence and an official due date. I left in good spirits, but not because of the ultrasound. It was human nature that gave me a false sense of security. It won’t happen again; I’ve already been dealt that card.

The next couple of weeks were blissfully uneventful. At 10 weeks, I had blood drawn for a genetic test, and my gut told me I would have a boy. I started screenshotting lists of boy names I saw on Instagram and eagerly awaited the results.

It’s easy to forget the true purpose of genetics testing because you can also find out if you’re having a boy or a girl. Thoughts of my advanced maternal age (36) and the possibility of complications slipped in and out of my mind, but again human nature reassured me I’d already been there, done that.

Two weeks later, I still hadn’t received the genetic test results. I assumed my doctor had them and I would have heard if something was concerning. My husband had to go on a last-minute work trip the morning of my 12-week appointment. I was annoyed. I remember saying something to him like, “You’re going to miss the moment.”

Saying there was a bad vibe in the doctor’s office that morning would be disrespectful. But it did feel like there was a dark presence, and I’m not even a woo-woo person. A couple sat far across the waiting room from me, visibly upset. One of them was holding a small box, which I didn’t connect to their emotions. I’m embarrassed that I was too focused on my upcoming appointment to see the obvious. They went in before me.

When the nurse I always got opened the door to call for me, her face was splotchy, and her eyes were red. She checked my weight, and we both were silent. She leaned on the back of the door to the exam room, pushing it closed. Her body language said, "OK, we’re alone now." She didn’t have to put up the professional front anymore. She grabbed a tissue and wiped tears from under her glasses.

I asked if she was ok. She told me it had been a terrible morning in the office. A woman she saw earlier was likely miscarrying. The couple I saw in the waiting room delivered their baby at home - it was early in the second trimester. My stomach felt like it had a kettlebell in it. The weight of their loss shook me. My nurse couldn’t stop the tears from coming.

It wasn’t professional, her telling me all this. I went back and forth as to whether to include her overshare. As women, doctors offices and what happens in them can be incredibly isolating though. I doubt most of our inner circle is unaware of the calls we’ve received about abnormal paps, suspicious masses, or infertility. News of this kind is difficult enough, but then, you deal with it alone. It’s too private to share, and the thought, “Why worry them?” creeps into our heads and keeps us from calling.

My nurse is also a mother, and the emotion I saw in her eyes showed a deep pain for her patients. She wasn’t gossiping, she was grieving for them. I knew because she’d done the same for me. I’d been through a previous miscarriage and a full, healthy pregnancy with her as my main check-in nurse. Our relationship felt closer than nurse/patient. Soon, my doctor entered the room.

My doctor was somber but still her usual unshakable self. She asked if I’d be ok with a student observing my ultrasound, and I said yes - I always said yes. Sometimes I wondered if I had it marked in my file that I would. The student was a tall, dorky-looking guy with glasses and a sweet smile. We made awkward small talk ignoring the fact that lives had just been torn apart in a room down the hall. My doctor asked how I’d been feeling, and I said better, not as sick as I was with my last pregnancy.

My doctor slapped her hands on both legs in an attempt to shift the energy in the room. “Let’s take a look!” she said. This was a classic move of hers. Casual positivity oozed out of her, and it helped me forget the loss I’d experienced a few years back.

I laid back and thought again about the other couple. It distracted me, and I didn’t notice the room was still silent or the look on my doctor’s face. I glanced up at the student, it seemed like he wanted out of the room. My doctor told me there was no heartbeat, and it looked like the baby had stopped growing after my 8-week appointment.

I felt sad for a split second and then embarrassed. How could an entire month have gone by with me thinking I was still pregnant? Why weren’t there any signs? I felt like an idiot. No wonder I hadn’t been as sick with this pregnancy, my body wasn’t creating life after all. I was upset but in familiar territory. The look of sympathy on my doctor’s face was the same she’d displayed when she told me my first pregnancy wasn’t progressing like it should.

The tears came after the doctor and student left the room. The last three months were for nothing. I’d even skipped applying for the CEO job at my company when I found out I was pregnant. After working full-time with one kid at home, I knew two kids and the top job wouldn’t work.

I shuffled out of the exam room, and my nurse’s eyes once again filled with tears as I rushed by; she mouthed I’m so sorry, and my voice cracked - “I’m okay.” I stopped at reception to tell them I wouldn’t need the rest of my planned appointments. I could barely get the words out. I’m not sure why I put myself through that, obviously my doctor would have relayed the info to them. Looking back at the moment, it reminds me of working during wildfires as a news reporter. People in evacuation zones would pile random things into the car instead of just getting out. Fear inhibits common sense.

In my car, my chest heaved. I dreaded calling my husband. I knew he would be expecting good news. Part of me was pissed he wasn’t there, and I was mad I had to stop crying long enough to relay what happened over the phone. He missed the moment. I didn’t expect it to be that moment, but I needed him more than I would have if the ultrasound had gone well. My husband didn’t want to miss the appointment. I knew that. He answered my call with a light-hearted, “Hey! How’d it go?” I could hear people in the background. I waited long enough for him to move away from them to share the news. He said all the right things, but the words didn’t fill the empty space in the car.

I really broke down when I realized I’d have to tell his mom next. She was watching our daughter at our house, and we hadn’t told her or his dad that I was pregnant. I’d even lied about where I was going when I left the house, saying I had a meeting. I decided to text her because I knew I wouldn’t be able to talk on the phone and unravel it in a way that made any sense.

I wanted to delay seeing my mother-in-law. She’s a wonderful person, and I knew her appropriately sad eyes and broken heart would be waiting for me. Instead of going home, I stopped by a bagel shop to get us lunch. “How’s your day going?” the cashier asked as she rang up my bagel sandwiches, wellness shot (why did I buy this?), and a smoothie for my daughter. “Good, how about yours?” I replied, feeling like a complete fraud.

On my way home, I called my sister, who was in her second trimester with her second child. She let me ramble about how I couldn’t believe this was happening again and how much it sucked that I didn’t apply for the CEO job. Once there was enough air for her to speak, she said, “I’m so sorry, that’s really shitty.” I felt validated. Sisters always know what to say. Right then, I didn’t need a positive spin on my situation, I wanted someone to agree with me that it wasn’t fair.

I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d done to deserve a miscarriage at 12 weeks. And not even a miscarriage in the sense that people think of, just a fizzled-out pregnancy that I’d have to deal with now medically. After my D&C, my doctor called and told me the genetic test results showed two very rare abnormalities. She reiterated that the miscarriage wasn’t my fault, this time with proof in hand. She asked if I wanted to know specifically what went wrong. I told her no that I’d obsess over it, and she agreed.

Three months isn’t a long time, but when you’re adjusting all the things in your day-to-day life, from the position you’re sleeping to how much caffeine you’re drinking, not to mention swapping wine for sparkling water while trying to survive toddler meltdowns, yeah—three months feels significant. Three months was also enough time for me to daydream about my daughter meeting her little brother or sister and to get excited about having cousins close in age again with my sister.

For me, the hardest part of miscarriage is having to tell people who found out you were pregnant. A few people in my inner circle knew, but I told them with caution because of my previous miscarriage. Then there were random people who found out, like the lead of an agency I worked with, who said he had a dream I was pregnant when I ran into him in Trader Joe’s. At that point, I was 11 weeks along and couldn’t hide my surprise at what he said. It felt like fate and a good sign. I told him I was pregnant, only to text him a week later that I had a loss. I’ve learned that people are more comfortable hearing about a loss than a miscarriage. People don’t know what to say, I get it. Sometimes, there’s nothing to say except that’s really shitty.