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This is a post I hoped I’d never have to write. I’ve read enough infertility blogs to know that many women who struggle with infertility go through miscarriage too; but somehow, I thought getting pregnant would be the only hard part for me. I didn’t think I would possibly have to somehow deal with both infertility AND miscarriage.
I was wrong.
If you haven’t read my post on being told I was going to miscarry, here’s a quick recap:
My miscarriage story
Four days after the euphoria of a positive test, I was told that my HCG levels were indicating a problem. Four blood tests later, I got a call — in the middle of teaching my ESL class about the electoral college — saying that this was not a viable pregnancy. It might even be ectopic.
One emergency ultrasound later, I got another call from the on-call doctor — this time at 11pm — saying that nothing was visible. An ectopic pregnancy was probable. And if my HCG levels didn’t start going down ASAP, I was going to need a methotrexate shot to help my body along a little bit.
But three blood tests later, I got another call. For the first time, good news. Maybe this little guy was just slow to get going, and it seemed he was getting back on track. This might be alright. Maybe my prayers were being answered with a resounding, “Yes!” Maybe there was hope, after all.
But another ultrasound and blood test later, I was again told that things didn’t look right. This was not a normal pregnancy. Something was wrong, but doctors wouldn’t be able to confirm it for another 11 days. They doubted I would make it to the ultrasound 11 days later. There was a chance, but not a great one.
Nine days later — seven and a half weeks along, after the ups and downs of a combination of the hope and hopelessness that comes from 8 blood tests and 2 early ultrasounds in a span of 3 weeks — I started bleeding.
After
Few women probably experience a sense of relief after having a miscarriage, and I hesitate to say that I did for fear you will take this the wrong way, but there was truthfully a small sense of relief that it was all over. I could finally stop trying to convince myself to be hopeful for something that doctors said was nonviable.
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t sad; I was, which I expected. I also expected the disbelief (this is seriously happening to ME?) the anger (really, God, after 2 1/2 years of infertility, this is how this pregnancy is going to go?!), and the emptiness.
But with a miscarriage after infertility, here’s what I didn’t expect:
1. I still feel like no one can relate.
Part of the reason I started this blog is because I felt like no one I knew could relate to me. I know, I know, infertility is super common, but none of my friends have really gone through it.
One thing my friends have had, though, is miscarriages. Actually, I think I’ve had more friends than not have miscarriages.
I’ve had friends have later miscarriages, after they’ve already announced their pregnancies. Other friends have shocking miscarriages, finding themselves bleeding suddenly and unexpectedly after everything had seemed to be going so well. I’ve had friends have devastating miscarriages (not that they all aren’t), where they have to find out from a doctor that the heartbeat they’d previously heard suddenly wasn’t beating anymore.
But I don’t have friends who have had their doctor tell them after 4 days of being pregnant that their pregnancy is not viable. I don’t have friends who have had to wait to lose their child after their doctor told them three weeks earlier there was no chance (but during those three weeks, be tested and teased by improving hormone levels and possibly-viable ultrasounds and “well maybe this could actually be viable but still probably not” conversations with doctors). I don’t have friends who have had a miscarriage after infertility.
Please don’t misunderstand: I certainly don’t mean to say that my miscarriage was harder. In fact, sometimes I think mine was easier in a lot of ways. Either way though, this is not about comparison. The point is: All miscarriages are different. And even though I know many people who have gone through miscarriages, each one is unique.
2. Miscarriage comes with difficult decisions, too.
Initially, doctors told me I’d probably have to take a methotrexate shot because my pregnancy was “most likely” ectopic. But should I really agree to take methotrexate to end a nonviable pregnancy if the doctors are not 100% certain this baby is in the wrong place? (I’m glad that wasn’t something I had to end up dealing with, that’s for sure.)
Throughout my bloodwork, ultrasounds, and eventual miscarriage, I wondered:
Should I just trust the doctors and do what they tell me?
Do I get another opinion or switch doctors?
Should I push for progesterone testing? Does that even matter at this point?
I thought the endless strings of questions and decisions would end with a positive pregnancy test. I thought I would be making fun decisions, like baby names and nursery themes and registry items. With a miscarriage after infertility, I didn’t realize I’d have more painful decisions to make.
I’ve had other friends have to make decisions about miscarrying naturally or having a D+C…I don’t envy those who have to make that decision, either.
3. The waiting hasn’t ended.
Like hard decisions, I thought the waiting would end after becoming pregnant. Turns out it was just the beginning.
Waiting for the next appointment. Then waiting for test results. Waiting another week to see if it’s viable. Then waiting to stop bleeding.
And now, waiting for my cycle to get back to normal. Waiting to try again.
4. I’ve found comfort knowing that others are praying for me.
I don’t often ask others to pray for me. But during these last several months, I’ve had more people praying for me than I can ever remember. I’ve asked more people to pray for me than I ever have.
And I have found a sense of comfort in knowing that others are interceding for me. I have felt relief knowing that I am not carrying the burden of this on my own; others are bringing me to God, too.
Read more about asking others to pray here.
5. I’m more hopeful.
I hesitate to even put this in here, at the risk of judgment and disagreement. To be clear: “At least you know you can get pregnant” tops just about everyone’s list of things NOT to say to someone who has just had a miscarriage. (Please don’t tell someone that!)
But truthfully, in my case anyway, it does make me hopeful. In the midst of infertility, at some point (for me, maybe about 2 years in) you start to believe that getting pregnant naturally (or at all) is simply not possible for you. So knowing that it is possible — even despite all this disappointment — gives me hope. My body actually does know what to do to get pregnant. Having a miscarriage after infertility did bring hope, at least for me.
6. I feel a little foolish…and have realized no future pregnancy will be the same.
I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but the excitement I felt over a positive pregnancy test makes me feel a little foolish now. Foolishly, I thought getting two pink lines would be the hard part. Little did I know.
And suddenly, I’ve realized that I will never again experience that same sense of excitement upon seeing two pink lines. If I become pregnant again, I will be excited, yes. But I know now that a positive pregnancy test doesn’t mean I will have a healthy baby.
At the same time, though, I don’t regret the excitement. In fact, I’m thankful that I got to experience this pregnancy, if even for a few weeks. That being said:
7. I’m grateful.
I was convinced I would never be able to make a surprise pregnancy announcement — and definitely not to my husband. Truthfully, my husband knows my cycles better than I do; he’s the first to ask if it’s time to take a pregnancy test.
And yet: That weekend, the one where I took a pregnancy test way too early, he randomly happened to be out of town. (As a side note: I may be the opposite of many women. I hate taking pregnancy tests. In fact, I usually refuse to do it unless I’m several days late.) But some unusual spotting prompted me to take a test much earlier than I normally ever would (turns out those early response 11-days-after ovulation-things actually can work 11 days after), a week before my husband would even think to mention it. And it came back positive.
And then I got to surprise my husband when he got back from his trip, something I thought would never ever happen. His reaction and disbelief were priceless.
So even if it never happens again, even if I never get pregnant again, I am honestly grateful that I was able to experience this excitement, if even for a few days.
And then, since finding out the crushing disappointment that it’s not viable, I can’t help but feel grateful for the support I’ve received. I’m grateful for all of the friends who have listened and for the encouragement from others. I’m grateful for all of the people — including many strangers who read this blog — who have told me they’re praying for me.
One Last Realization
I’ve never quite been able to figure out the Bible verse that says that suffering produces hope:
“Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”
Romans 5:3-4
How can suffering give us hope, anyway?
In the middle of this miscarriage even after going through infertility, it started to make sense. Even during my suffering, Jesus made His presence known. I have felt surrounded by His love, over and over again.
Suffering produces hope in us because we come to the realization that nothing — not even the suffering we’re enduring — can separate us from His love.
God is giving me strength even in my darkest time. He is reminding me that He is still in control. And so I rejoice in my sufferings, knowing that he is producing perseverance, character, and hope in me. His plan will always prevail, and it is for my good.
And that — not the hope that I will get pregnant again, though I’m hopeful for that too — is what gives me true and lasting hope.
For more thoughts on miscarriage after infertility, check out:
—Finding Comfort After Miscarriage
—When You’ve Been Told You Will Miscarry
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