Dear Nora,
I took the test on a Tuesday. I assumed, like the months before, that it was going to be negative, but that song I’d heard the day before made me feel like this was our month. When I turned the test back over, I couldn’t believe my eyes! There it was, the faintest pink line I’d ever seen… or was it?! I held it up to the light, I used my phone’s flashlight for a better look, and I ran to the front window to look in natural light because I couldn’t believe it. When the line was still there in the sunshine I fell to the floor crying tears of joy. Then, dread and fear hit me like a bus. My heart started racing and every part of me began to panic. What if I miscarried again? What if we had to hear a doctor diagnose HLHS again? What if we had to hold another dead baby? How would I even survive that? I can still see Barnum standing bewildered in the hallway.
The weeks that followed brought only more fear and uncertainty as test after test showed good signs in terms of HCG, but bad signs in terms of everything else. My numbers were quadrupling, but there was nothing on ultrasound. “You’re not pregnant,” I can still hear the doctor say it. I’d never even met her before, but I’d explained my history to her before we entered the exam room. It sounded so cold and matter of fact. Case closed. No baby. She asked what my last levels were, did some quick mental math and said that actually, she didn’t expect to see anything yet. Get tested again she said.
The new test showed levels far beyond where she said we should expect to see a gestational sac and my dates put me in the zone in which we should’ve even seen electrical activity. Was this an ectopic pregnancy? Come back for another ultrasound and get new labs she said. Skyrocketed HCG and a gestational sac on ultrasound… an empty gestational sac. Was this a blighted ovum? “Come back in and we will discuss your options.” I was heartbroken, but something in me felt calm.
The doctor did one last scan just to check and in just a few days the gestational sac had gone from being empty to having an embryo with electrical activity measuring exact dates. It was some kind of magic and my eyes couldn’t contain my emotion. I had no words, but I thanked her repeatedly and left the office both elated and terrified. So began the long, painful journey that was my sixth and final pregnancy.
I spent the first trimester completely miserable and utterly grateful for it. I kept telling your dad that it was okay because it meant the baby was doing well. It would all be worth it I’d say. Still, it wasn’t easy to wake up nauseous before I’d even opened my eyes. I would make your sisters breakfast and assume the fetal position on the couch while they ate. I forced myself to eat everyday because I needed to eat and tried to enjoy getting fresh air in the hopes I could feel a bit better.
When the genetic testing results came back healthy, I was able to take a slightly bigger breath. Still, I worried because I knew that it didn’t mean I’d have a healthy baby, or even a living one. I wasn’t surprised when those results showed we’d be having another girl, but I was afraid. I was afraid it would feel too similar. That it would all be too painful. I worried how it would feel to have your sisters get to come to the hospital to meet her. I worried it would make it easier for others to feel as though we should be healed, having three girls. I was afraid I would picture you even more alongside her as she grew, ticking off each milestone with a shadow of sadness and comparison.
Having care transferred to the doctor we saw with you helped me tremendously. She brought such kindness and care. She helped me feel calm, even when I was a ball of anxiety. I can’t explain how nice it was not to have to explain anything, for her to just know what we’d been through and what we were facing. She, like us, was cautiously optimistic and she scheduled our first echo as early as she could; just days before our scheduled move to Germany. I felt so sick going into that appointment, I was so incredibly nervous. Still, I felt that inexplicable calm, like everything was going to be fine. I had to go to the appointment by myself and that felt scarier and scarier the longer I sat in the waiting room. I was greeted by a nurse I knew and asked if it was okay to have someone observe. I can picture his face, but I can’t remember if he was a student or a resident no matter how hard I try. Not that that detail is important. I’d said it was fine and I fought back tears as I scrutinized every detail I could of that echo. Waiting for the cardiologist with the nurse felt like it took ages though I’m certain it was mere minutes. He came in to the room and asked how I was, “I’m doing okay, I think.” I’d said and he asked if he could make me even better. I began to cry before he even started telling me that the baby’s heart had all four appropriately-sized chambers. My doctor came in next with a giant grin and tears in her eyes. She asked if I would update her and I apologized that she couldn’t be there when the baby was born. We hugged and I left her with my gratitude and a promise to send a photo.
Once we were in Germany, I got another new doctor. She was nice enough, but it was tough with the language barrier and our lack of rapport. Even with a healthy first echo, I was constantly worried. I thought that I’d feel better as movements were more consistent, but that almost made it harder. Fewer or slower movements for even a normal period of time had me concerned. As we approached my due date and prodromal labor carried on, I was worried and fearful. I was afraid we wouldn’t make it to delivery with a healthy, living baby. I worried that the cord would prolapse. I was scared of a bad outcome. Still, I was ready to meet her. I tried to soak up those baby kicks and wiggles as I knew they’d be my last, but I found it difficult.
Then the day came. Contractions had actually finally stopped for the first time in weeks, but I shot up from the couch exclaiming, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, OH MY GOSH!” as my water broke and Ellie chased after me asking what that meant. Did I mention I had just finished steam mopping the floors about 20 minutes earlier?! Ellie and Rose were such good helpers while we waited for your dad to get home from work so we could go to the hospital. Ellie instructed Rose to get her bunny into her backpack and make sure she used the potty. Rose made sure they both had toothbrushes and extra snacks. I finished packing and used my Doppler to check in on her heart rate. On the drive to the hospital that song came on again, the one that made me certain I was pregnant nine months earlier and we all sang along.
I knew I wanted an epidural; if there was an emergency I wanted to be ready. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible and I still remember sobbing, “this isn’t what I wanted!” as I listened to the low heart rate that accompanied yet another extremely painful contraction. I couldn’t focus, I was terrified and in pain and the midwife yelled at me to do what she said because the baby needed me to. I moaned that I was trying and I was sorry. I was after all, trying, I could hear her heart rate, I could see the monitor, I knew what it all meant, but I was paralyzed in fear and overcome with pain. I felt so out of control, but I was getting this baby out and I didn’t care that she’d just told me I was 8cm. I pushed with everything I had as I flashed back to your birth and begged the universe that your sister would be okay. When the midwife placed her on my abdomen, I looked at your dad with tears of joy and said, “She’s crying, she’s crying!” and I held her and cried as I told him we’d get to see the color of her eyes. The midwife apologized that she couldn’t bring the baby up closer, “the cord is quite too short to go too far.” she’d said, I couldn’t help but cry as I assured her that was okay. I like to think you had a hand in that, you helped to keep her safe.
Your big sisters came to visit us and it was so special. They held her and marveled at her tiny-ness. Their beaming smiles brought me such joy and a touch of healing too. We had to stay an extra night and I was crushed, but as we finally left and the cold air hit me I was so grateful. Your dad took a photo of us all on our way to the car, I’m in the back, face red and eyes puffy; tears welling up as I thank the universe that we’re walking away with a car seat that isn’t empty.
Days later, In the shower, I cried as I felt and hugged my now foreign body. I explored the stomach that no longer held a baby and never would again. I longed for the kicks and the big belly I’d had only a few days prior. And I grieved. I grieved you and so many of the things we’ve lost by losing you. I mourned the joyful, carefree pregnancy I wanted but didn’t get to have. I felt sadness and anger knowing I was robbed of truly enjoying the last nine months. I’d wanted to soak it all in, to really enjoy it and commit the feeling to memory knowing it would be my last, but I couldn’t. Through the constant anxiety and terror, I just couldn’t and it made me so sad. For the first time in a postpartum period I didn’t dislike my body, I wasn’t afraid of how it had changed or uncomfortable in it but it did make me sad. I don’t know how long I stood there letting the hot water wash away my sobs, but I do know when I got out of the shower I could hear a baby crying and it wasn’t just in my head. How lucky I am to hear that cry. I love you Nora and I still miss you all the time.
Love,
Mommy
Dear Nora 