It’s no secret that pregnancy after loss is challenging. The knowledge that things can go wrong and that your baby might not go home with you is ever-present. Triggers abound, and anxiety is a consistent force that must be reckoned with. Sometimes, the very thing you fear- losing this baby too- comes too close for comfort in only a small moment.
It happened last week at our Maternal Fetal Medicine appointment and has been on my mind since.
Just like that, it was there. It began as a slow, icy ascent up the back of my neck, prickling into needling heat as it reached my scalp. Fear. I could hear my own heart pounding, but no one could hear our unborn son’s heartbeat. Not the nurse, not the doctor. The panic rose, enveloping me; I felt the tears spill from my eyes and into my ears as I lay there for what seemed like an eternity. My husband, in a cold sweat, grabbed my hand tightly as we both imagined the very worst. “Stop. Breathe. Think.” Suddenly all the phrases I’ve ever used to calm myself or talk the anxiety away were absolutely worthless. They couldn’t find his heartbeat. There was only static on the doppler. They tried two dopplers, and only static. What the hell was going on? I felt our baby move on the drive over, I know I did. He kicked me right in the ribs with a gusto that only indicated thriving, vibrant life. How could there be nothing suddenly? He wasn’t moving through the noise of the static or my ragged breathing… there was only… nothing. We were in the middle of our worst nightmare- again.
Our doctor and our nurse we were meeting with know our history; instead of prolonging the agony, panic, and fear both Chris and I were feeling, they arranged for us to go over to ultrasound immediately. The two minutes between that room and the ultrasound room were unimaginably long. I was shaking. Chris did his best to maintain composure, but he was as terrified as I was. How couldn’t he be? We thought we were in the midst of a storm we hoped we’d never be in, ever again. I still wasn’t feeling my sweet baby move… why wasn’t he moving?? PTSD had kicked in at full-force, and it was like we were back in Ann Arbor again, losing our Lucy. At that point, logic failed me. I was nearly convinced we’d already lost him.
The ultrasound tech and another doctor we hadn’t interacted with met us in the ultrasound room after receiving a quick run-down on our history. They were empathetic and seemed to understand our panic and worry. As I sat down on the table to adjust and get ready to lay down for the ultrasound, I thought I felt baby boy move. Relief tried to pry its way in, but I wasn’t going to be satisfied until I saw that little heart beating steadily on the screen.
Thankfully, that’s exactly what happened. Even though my own heart was still racing, I was able to breathe again. There he was, his heart beating healthfully as it always has. Our little man is okay.
Chris and I spent the rest of the day feeling as though we were recovering. It takes my mind back to the early days of grief so soon after Lucy died. No wonder we were so exhausted… that fear, that adrenaline… it takes a toll on your mind and body. Though we need no reminders of how everything can change in an instant, those few minutes of uncertainty humbled us once again. Everything can be perfectly okay, and then it isn’t. There are no guarantees. We’re not in control of everything. I don’t think the fear will go away until our baby is alive in our arms, and even then, I know there will be many different kinds of fear to contend with.
I can’t help but think about all the parents out there who’ve found out that their sweet little ones had passed in such a way, with the words “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat” as the gateway to their own personal hell of infant loss. I was terrified that we were among their ranks. Though it was just a few technical glitches, the whole experience rocked us to our core for a few days.
With just a couple of weeks left until our Rainbow’s arrival, I find myself wishing there was a fast forward button, allowing us to skip ahead to the part that includes that first cry flowing through the air, where we meet our living son. We’re so close. After we left the doctor’s office that day, a dragonfly continually hovered by the car until we left. I watched it as it watched me, and I felt her there… Lucy checked in to let me know that everything is okay. It was the final reassurance I needed.
Photo by Florian van Duyn on Unsplash