Miscarriage: Fear, Sorrow and Unmet Expectations…

            In jubilant giddiness, with the vision of those pink test strip lines lingering in my mind, I practically skipped to the car with Parker that Friday morning. It was a beautiful August day, and I planned to attend my gym’s aerobic class and then take Parker to the movie theater to see the weekly children’s movie. With season tickets, our Friday movie adventure had become a fun, highly anticipated ritual.

           

            After checking him into the gym’s child-care room, I headed into the aerobics area to carefully set up my steps and select dumbbells and Thera-bands. I eased into the first several minutes of the workout, carefully avoiding any twisting and abdominal work.

           

            Now let me stop my story right here for a minute. For those of you have read through my blog from the beginning, know my story, and “suffered” through Victoria’s death and the circumstances surrounding it, you might be asking yourself at this point, “Andrea, what were you thinking!? Are you nuts!? You should have known better than to do any kind of exercising, given your pregnancy history.”

           

            Well, maybe I should have. Or maybe I was just too giddy and hormone-infused to think straight. Or maybe I just so desperately wanted to be “normal” like other women. Whatever it was, I went to the gym.

           

            Not more than ten minutes into the aerobics exercise, I felt that distinctive flow familiar to all women. I bolted from the gym and sprinted to the bathroom, where—in terror—I stared at the slowly emerging blood. “Oh, please, God! Not again; I can’t take this again!”

           

            I thought I was mumbling, but a woman quickly emerged from a stall and asked if she could help, after first locating me lying on one of the changing benches. I managed a controlled, “No, but thank you,” and briefly explained my fears. While talking to her, my mind raced to engineer an action plan. If there were any action plan available to me at that point.

           

            Dr. Gordon’s office is just across the street, I thought. If I can just make it over there in the car without bleeding anymore, I might be able to have him look at me. Like a woman on an impossible, desperate mission—which she knows only too well she is likely to lose, but remains driven to continue in spite of odds or logic—I scooped up my gym bag, snagged Parker from his play room, smirked briefly at the child-care attendant who looked me up and down and said in a mildly sarcastic tone, “But you just got here!” and left the building as quickly and gingerly as I could.

           

            Within minutes, I stood trembling at Dr. Gordon’s reception counter, babbling at his receptionist about what had happened, saying I was sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do, and was hesitant to drive forty minutes south to the other doctor’s office. Her suggestion that he might want me to go to the emergency room of his hospital for an exam terrified me even more. Not that emergency room, again! I thought. No way!

           

            I stood catatonic and wide-eyed at the counter, while she retreated down the hallway and disappeared into an examination room to locate Dr. Gordon. As she padded back up the hallway toward me, she assured me he’d see me right away, and then she escorted me to one of his comfortable, homey accommodations. Parker trailed behind me.

           

            If I can just get my feet up in the air, maybe I can stop this from happening, I thought. After carefully scaling the examination table and assuming the head-down position with which I was so familiar, I stared at the ceiling tiles, twiddled my thumbs and awaited Dr. Gordon’s arrival. Parker proceeded to investigate the room and its unusual crannies, while I fought to keep my heart from escaping the confines of my chest cavity. Finally, Dr. Gordon entered the room.

           

            I blurted out my condition and fears, and, after a soothing word and sympathetic look, Dr. Gordon conducted an examination. After several minutes, he extracted what appeared to him to be placental tissue. Within seconds, I started cramping.

           

            “If you haven’t miscarried already, you are probably in the process of doing so,” he announced. “It’s nothing you did,” he rapidly assured me. “Things like this happen all of the time, for a variety of reasons; many women miscarry who don’t even know they’re pregnant, don’t even suspect that they’ve lost an embryo. Just go home and relax. I’ll have the sample sent to the pathology lab for evaluation. I suspect it will be normal, but if it’s not, then we’ll have more tests to perform.” It all sounded so clinical, but I was used to clinical. Being used to clinical briefly made my brain switch to a mode of hearing facts I wasn’t personally related to. Textbook facts. That’s all they were: textbook facts, and I was the specimen experiencing them. My brain switching into that mode afforded me some protection against losing every last sense of sanity I possessed. 

           

            Then Dr. Gordon ran through the possibilities falling in the “abnormal” category along with the possible scenario of excess tissue remaining in the uterus. I heaved a sigh, resigned to the realization that nothing more could be done.

           

            Dr. Gordon helped me to a sitting position.

           

            I was numb.

           

            “Chris doesn’t even know I’m pregnant. I was planning to surprise him tomorrow night at dinner,” I mumbled pathetically.

           

            With a sincere, commiserating expression, he said, “Chris is a great guy. It will be hard, but you will both be fine. I want to see you next week; I should have the pathology report back by that time.”

           

            What am I going to do now? I thought. I no longer wanted to sit through a movie at the theater, but I didn’t want to be alone, or answer any of Parker’s persistent questions.

           

            What I wanted was to crawl into bed and block out the world. Is this what infertile couples go through? I wondered. Months of unsuccessful efforts, only to find out one day you’re pregnant—and then the next day you’re not? How could they continue on the roller coaster for months, or years?

           

            I had nothing to complain about. I already had a beautiful, healthy child. So why did that feeling of incompleteness and failure, of being robbed of reproductive ability and joy rage through me? Why do I have to be so abnormal?

           

            Clutching Parker’s soft little hand, I shuffled across the parking lot to the pay phones located outside the grocery store. Oh, I hope he answers the phone, my mind groaned. A relentless ache pummeled my heart as I dialed Chris’s office.

           

            “Hello,” came the familiar voice over the receiver.

           

            “Hi,” I squeaked. Not this way, I thought. I don’t want to tell him this way. He deserves better. I tried so hard to sound strong. I wanted so badly to remain cool and controlled, but that veneer sheered off in a nanosecond.

           

            “I need you to come home; I just had a miscarriage!” I blurted, dissolving into tears.

           

            The words spewed from my lips. “I just came from Dr. Gordon’s office, and I’ve had a miscarriage. I don’t want to be alone; I can’t be alone!” I screeched into the phone. “I was going to surprise you with the news tomorrow night; I’ve known since Wednesday. I gulped in air. “I wanted it to be a surprise! Oh, I’m so sorry.” I gulped in more air. “Will you come home?” I begged.

           

            “You go home,” Chris said. “I’m leaving right now.”

           

            “Thanks…I’m sorry, Chris.” I whispered. “I’ll see you in a little while…I love you.” I re-cradled the receiver onto the pay phone.

           

            What must he think of having such an inadequate wife who presents him with so many health problems? I wondered.

           

            Still clutching Parker’s hand, I struggled to tell my him why we’d have to skip the movie and go home. Then I quickly abandoned my attempts to explain anything to him. Explanations seemed useless and inadequate. He had no idea what just transpired. All he understood was that his extremely upset Mommy was bleeding again.

           

            The small parking lot appeared to stretch endlessly in front of us as we walked back toward Dr. Gordon’s office building. Hours earlier, I’d eagerly anticipated my Saturday night date with Chris, where I’d beam proudly and expose my precious secret. I had acted it out countless times.

           

            Now I had to muster all of my emotional energy reserves to drag myself and an invisible weight across the hot, radiating asphalt. At least the cramping has stopped, I noticed with gratefulness while sliding into the car.

           

            No more cramping. No more baby. That was swift and final.

           

            When will this nightmarish ride end?

           

            Maybe Chris and I would have to end it…right here.

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NEXT WEEK: God plays His hand…and we begin the ride of our lives…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

           

            

Trying Again: Pregnancy Fears and Anxiety After A Loss

            A funny thing happened when I finally decided to slow down, remove Parker from preschool, and learn the fine art of how to be a wife and mother. I relaxed. Really  r-e-l-a-x-e-d. And so did Parker and Chris.

           

            Parker finally stopped asking all of those morbid, rapid-fire questions regarding my health, his health made a miraculous improvement, and Chris seemed to like being home more because edginess and anxiety no longer reigned supreme in the house. The family atmosphere meter registered somewhere between happiness and contentment, all of the time. And, to Parker, all was finally right with the world. He had his mom’s full attention and we spent hours sprawled on his bedroom floor overseeing the function of an extensive Lego airport.

           

            We even started taking a three-day vacation every month, and launched our family’s love of train travel by riding the Amtrak rails to Santa Barbara one weekend. We felt like a thriving family again.

           

            And I got the first inkling that my emotional and spiritual healing had made progress when the question of trying again to have another child started rattling around my brain.

           

            Should I, could I, would I? How does Chris feel? Would Chris even want to try? Is he finally ready to discuss it?

           

            It turned out that Chris had healed a lot emotionally and spiritually, too, because he was finally able to discuss it. When I asked him how he felt about it, he said he was interested, and ready to try again.

           

            “Well, do you remember what you said to me when I was lying in bed with Victoria, receiving treatment for my severe morning sickness?” I asked him tenuously.

           

            Chris blinked in response.

           

            “You said to me, ‘I don’t know about you, but if something happens to this pregnancy, I’m not going to want to go through this again.’”

           

            Chris blinked again, then nodded slowly. “I do.”

           

            “Are you positive you want to try again, then?” I nudged. “Absolutely sure? Because I’m not going to even attempt to have another baby if I’m going to be a single parent again, with you working on getting some other business venture off the ground, while I’m going through a possibly tenuous pregnancy, raising Parker pretty much on my own, and holding everything together around here. It’s not fair to Parker or me; and I won’t do it. It cost us way too much last time.”

           

            My words were greeted with a moment of thick silence before Chris responded. “I

know. And I’m ready, and I’ll be here. We should try again.”

           

            “Even in spite of the high possibility of my having another placenta previa?” I didn’t have to tack on the line, “I might die this time, you know. Are you ready to confront that possibility?” although I knew both of us were thinking the same thing.

           

            He took a deep breath as I tried to read his eyes. 

           

            “I’m ready. We should try.”

           

            We sealed our pact with a hug and kiss. And once again I went to the Lord on my knees.

           

            “God, am I in Your will, here? Are we in Your will? I want Your will to be done, not mine. I’m prepared to give everything up to You.” Then I sneaked in a request for a smooth, uneventful, easy and enjoyable pregnancy, like Parker’s had been. Yet even as I asked for all of that, I knew in my heart that if I weren’t granted those pleasures, God would see me through it. He would not forsake me, in either a difficult pregnancy—or another loss.

           

            Saying those things in prayer were altogether different from outwardly displaying the peace and confidence those confident words implied. When Chris and I actually put our words into action, I rapidly liquefied into a jelly-like human amoeba.

           

            The abdominal pain, from which I suffered since my pregnancy with Victoria, increased. I started suffering what seemed like heart palpitations and rapid heart rate episodes accompanied by an annoying fainting sensation. Gall bladder attacks emerged as inescapable post-meal assaults. The doctors tested me for thyroid disturbances, gallstones, heart problems, scar tissue and aortic aneurysms. I received a thorough scouring over by an ultrasound technician, donated blood for analysis, wore a heart monitor for twenty-four hours, and had one of those lovely lower gastrointestinal enemas scheduled so they could take a digestive system peak.

           

            Meanwhile, during this three-month medical marathon, Chris and I attempted to verify our fertility during the monthly opportunity window. And that became an emotional, physical and spiritual burden. With each unsuccessful attempt, my heart plummeted and depression crept in like dark, persistent clouds smothering our hopes—until the next month’s opportunity window flipped over on the hormonal calendar, and we psyched ourselves up to try again.

           

            While we kept the home fires lit, the medical test results rolled in. All but one returned with a “normal” judgment. The abnormal blood test showed an increased potassium level, which may have been the culprit behind my heart palpitations. The highly scientific diagnosis: Cut down on the vast quantities of bananas and banana bread I consumed.

           

            In my anxiety, I’d driven my body into another steady state of constant panic and fear, and the stress had triggered a variety of illnesses. My bodily systems were in overdrive, unable to equilibrate and function properly; unable to maintain what physiologists and doctors call homeostasis—the happy status quo the body loves to maintain, for all systems to function properly.

           

            While unenthusiastically awaiting my lower GI enema test, it became evident to me during the first week of August of 1994, that I might be pregnant. With glee, I canceled the test—not allowed in pregnant women due to the body-assaulting radiation—and nibbled my lip until the magic time arrived to perform a pregnancy test. Being the impatient type, I headed to the store to purchase one of those over-the-counter, do-it-yourself models. (Back then, those pink line, “yes,” blue line, “no” wands had just become readily available in the grocery stores, and most women still sojourned to the doctor to provide their mid-stream-only test sample and fork over their co-payments to have the test read by a nurse. With only two to three weeks having transpired since possible conception, I suspected the results were likely to be inaccurate, or false, chucking my emotions right back in the depression basket.

           

            After pacing the bathroom floor for the prescribed waiting time, I closed my eyes, sucked in some air and then peeked apprehensively at the indicator.

           

            I blinked. Then I readjusted my vision and squinted at the wand protruding from my clenched hand, which was shaking spastically in front of my peering eyeballs.

           

            Pink lines.

           

            Positive pink lines!

           

            A firestorm of emotions ripped through me. Elation. Fear. Apprehension. Ambivalence. Yet thrill out-muscled the others and emerged the victor. Giddiness stretched my lips into an ear-to-ear smile and vision-clouding tears dribbled down my cheeks. I kneeled on the bathroom tile and choked out, “Thank you, God! Thank you…”

           

            Then my analytic mind kicked into gear. “Better get official test results from Dr. Landry before telling Chris,” I mumbled to myself. “Their high-tech equipment will provide a firm diagnosis.”

           

            I bounced, light-hearted through the day and managed to keep my secret through the night. The following morning, I waited on edge for Chris to leave the house and then called Dr. Landry’s office. Thankfully, they ushered me into an appointment that afternoon. After filling their cup, re-screwing the lid and gingerly setting it into the prescribed lab tray, I returned to the waiting room to jiggle my legs in anticipation of a verdict. Finally, the smiling nurse poked her head around the waiting room door corner and escorted me to Dr. Landry’s officer, where he sat immersed in some charts.

           

            Dr. Landry looked up, invited me to sit down, offered grinning “Congratulations,” instructed me to buy seasickness bands for the impending morning sickness and wrote out a prescription for pre-natal vitamins. Then he sent me home, “to relax.”

           

            Relax!? How would that happen? I  o-o-z-e-d euphoria and made mental plans to surprise Chris with the news Saturday night, when we had a scheduled date to celebrate our eleventh wedding anniversary. That was three days away. I’d have to keep my secret stuffed away until then and avoid donning the affectation of a Cheshire cat.

           

            What will he say, I wondered. Will he be excited? Stunned? Self-satisfied?

           

            I didn’t know what the future held, but, for that sweet, adrenaline-infused moment, I was going to soak myself in the supreme joy of knowing God was taking us down this road—one more time.

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NEXT WEEK: Fleeting joy and broken hearts…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Missing the Signs of Stress and Anxiety in My Pre-School Child: Part 2

(For those of you just joining us, the first part of this particular child anxiety and stress story started with my last post, so make sure you read that one first!)

           

            Despite prayer and plenty of self-talk, my mother worry gene remained engaged in high-alert as Parker (now four years old) and I prepared for the sleep apnea study at the Children’s Hospital in San Diego, where he’d be embellished with sensors from head to toes. On a beautiful Thursday evening, he and I made the forty-five minute drive to the new hospital. Chris met us there after work for the introduction and to give a brief, “’at a boy” pep talk to Parker. Then he went home to bed. I would remain with Parker for the eight-hour test.

           

            The twinkling stars on the ceiling of the hospital’s lobby might have mesmerized Parker for a brief moment, but they didn’t do much to smooth my raw edges. Even Parker seemed unconvinced; the suspicious look engraved on his face told me that even he knew the pretty façade had to be a mantle for mysterious, frightening things awaiting him in the inner sanctums.   

           

            After Parker was entertained with an in-house video and mandatory repertoire of mommy-and-son bedtime tunes, I retired to what the hospital had generously described as a cot, (actually more a minimally reclining, padding-free chair), and eyeballed my son dressed in his miniature hospital jammies and the monitors for nearly eight hours. A technician observed the incoming data while filming his movements from the adjacent room. This night, someone else got to be the notebook-keeper.

           

            In the middle of this procedure, Parker coughed and choked, beautifully reproducing his worrisome symptoms, then realized—in horror—that he’d soaked the bed. I don’t need to describe the scene for you to imagine the challenge of unhooking the leads and escorting a tearful little boy into the cold, sterile atmosphere of a hospital bathroom to change his clothes, soothe his broken spirit and then reattach him for the remainder of the test.

           

            To coax him back to sleep, I joined him in bed, lulling him with more songs and caresses. I also gave him the nasal allergy medications his pediatrician had prescribed while awaiting the diagnosis. I didn’t give it to him at the onset, because I wanted them to see exactly what happened without medication influencing the results.

           

            The songs or caresses scored, because—thankfully— he returned to a comfortable sleep. Until four o’clock in the morning when the technician announced the test over. No languishing around the room. No allowing Parker to finish his sweet dreams. We were ushered around quickly to pack our bags, dress and vacate. The hospital register was ringing, and the insurance company had punched a pre-set time clock. Any extra seconds would be out-of-pocket ones. I thought I heard the distinctive sound of a door being slammed behind us as we left. Luckily we moved fast enough not to be bounced by it.

           

            For a treat, I took Parker, and the obligatory stuffed bear the hospital had given him, out to breakfast. He wasn’t particularly interested in sharing the Grand Slam meal I selected, but I needed the coffee for the toothpicks-in-the-eyes, hour drive home. Finally, we ascended the I-15 on-ramp amidst a beautiful California sunrise. The test was complete. Now the waiting came began.

           

            But that sunrise signaled such hope and promise that fear finally escaped me. Another glorious morning had begun.

           

            We all needed the hope it represented.

*****************************************

            The results arrived soon after, along with a visit to the pulmonary specialist who pronounced Parker to be just fine, and who said my son probably had mucous draining into his throat as the result of allergies, causing him to gag and sit up to clear his airway. The treatment seemed relatively simple: a continuation of nasal sprays and an admonition to be on the alert for those things that irritated his sinuses, including the grass he relished rolling around on.

           

            My worry gene hadn’t yet relaxed to normal, so I took the cautious route and kept him in our bedroom. It took more than a year of successful treatment, and my continual, assessing watch, to finally be satisfied that Parker would truly be safe in his own room at night—without me.

             

            Along with the physical problems, though, Parker started exhibiting insecurity and separation anxiety whenever I left him at preschool or at home with Chris.

           

            It began eleven months after Victoria’s death, that he started resisting my leaving him at the preschool he’d been attending two to three mornings a week since he was two. He would ask often, and nervously, where I was going. Did I have to go to the doctor? Would I be okay? Would I come back to get him? He always reiterated strongly, but without tears, that he was concerned about me and wanted to be with me. That he did not want me left alone.

           

            One evening, when I returned home after shopping—and well after Parker had gone to bed—Chris told me Parker had questioned him repeatedly during my absence about where I was going and if I’d return. Over and over he questioned Chris about whether I was bleeding again, and if I needed to go to the hospital. It suddenly became apparent to Chris and me that our young son was suffering from stress, fear and anxiety. Problems we hadn’t really considered possible in such a small child.

           

            Repeated verbal assurances from us didn’t alleviate Parker’s anxiety. We couldn’t reason it out him. He needed some concrete action, some life changes.

           

            And it was Parker who initiated them.

           

            He stopped outside the preschool door one morning, turned to look into my eyes with all of the seriousness of an earnest four-year-old, and announced with a sigh of resignation and apparent fatigue, “Mom, I need a vacation.”

             

            I chomped my lip and stifled a snicker. He no longer wanted to attend preschool. Maybe he never did really want to attend, I thought. What was clear now, though, was that he wanted to be with me, all of the time. And he was expressing it in the most diplomatic, constructive, effective way he knew how.

           

            I kneeled to his eye level and donned my most serious expression.

           

            How long of a vacation do you think you need?” I asked him, combatting another smile.

           

            “Oh…about five months,” he responded with a tilt of his blond head accented with a shrug and flip of his hands. Careful. Don’t laugh at him, Andrea! I chastised myself.

           

            “Okay,” I agreed. “Beginning next month, you may go on vacation!” His blue eyes glittered. Relief saturated his face and body. He stood up taller, satisfied. Hopeful.

           

            His idea of a vacation was to pile in the car and escape to unknown, exciting places, so his spirits were a bit dampened when informed that he wouldn’t be going anywhere special; that his vacation, for the most part, would be spent at home. Even in his disappointment, he appeared immensely relieved that his sojourn to preschool would soon be curtailed, and he would be alone with me throughout the day—for the next five months.

           

            When he quit preschool, his relentless questions about my health continued for several weeks, then stopped. He suddenly seemed so secure and content—as long as we were together, and I was taking care of him. Until that time, I hadn’t fully appreciated how much he needed me.

           

            In the midst of his emerging independence and controlled veneer, I had failed to remember just how young, vulnerable and fragile he was. I had been profoundly mistaken: He wasn’t really “my little man” at all, as I often called him.

           

            He was a vulnerable little boy—hovering somewhere between toddler and child—only moments in time beyond infancy. Still defenseless and reliant.

           

            The realization hit me like a face slap. Remorse bruised my heart.

           

            So, in April of 1994, exactly one year after his baby sister’s death, Parker and I started concentrating again on that tender, mother-son, parent-child relationship. We played, we laughed, we hugged. We laid firm foundation blocks of security.

           

            We worked seriously on love and priceless family relationships.

           

            And I was reminded how children usually spell love. T-i-m-e.

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NEXT WEEK: Was it now time to start thinking seriously about trying again to have another child? Could we, should we try? When—how—would we know?

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

For those of you interested in what recent studies show regarding stress in children—from pregnancy through childhood—read this valuable article, "How Parents' Stress Can Hurt a Child, From the Inside Out," by Alice G. Walton.

http://www.forbes.com/sites/alicegwalton/2012/07/25/how-parents-stress-can-hurt-a-child-from-the-
inside-out/

And here's a great post from Meg Villanueva discussing steps to conquer fear. Join her on her blog: Pebbles Along the Path
Pebbles Along the Path: Fear and worry: Subdue and Conquer