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Welcome back! Thanks for sticking around for part two of my infertility journey. Perhaps you or a friend have gone through something similar. I hope that by reading these blog posts, you realize that you are not alone with your experiences and feelings. 

In the last post, I was diagnosed with PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome) and was in a determined uphill climb of finding ways to “fix” me. 

I talked with numerous people who have had the same diagnosis as me, wept over podcasts who told tales of miraculously achieving their dreams of being pregnant and went on countless diets and exercise programs. I was led to believe that there was a magic number I needed to be on the weight scale and I just needed to keep on losing weight to figure out the secret combination lock to unlock my ovaries. 

Reflecting back, I realize that I slowly fostered a negative relationship with my body. I rarely looked in the mirror and saw someone I loved. Instead I saw a body who failed me.

After a few years, I magically hit a number on the scale and BAM! I was pregnant. I did it. Years of the gym, eating no sugar diets, and recording data on my body functions led to the miracle of life.

And I loved that baby so much. From the minute I saw the lines on the pregnancy stick, I talked to the baby in my belly. I rubbed my belly singing to it every day. I read fairy tales to my belly, played classical music and started designing the nursery. When the nausea started, I was so grateful for it. I felt so blessed to have pregnancy symptoms.

I had weird cravings. I loved everything banana flavored. And I had a weird craving one day for a pickle and peanut butter sandwich, which tasted like heaven. 

I told everyone the good news even though we were so early. It never occurred to me to hold the news back. 

I was so excited that I joined a pregnancy water aerobics class. Everyone there had bigger bumps than me but it did not bother me. I knew the class filled up quickly and I wanted to ensure I had a spot for when my bump got bigger. 

We had some stressful family events but I was able to get through them because I had a single thought in my head: “do not stress otherwise you could stress the baby.” So when my husband’s grandmother had a stroke that paralyzed half her body, I breathed through it and helped her in any way I could. Then shortly after, my grandfather suddenly was in hospice for liver failure. I flew to New York and stayed with him every moment until he passed. I helped with funeral arrangements, guided my younger cousins through their grief, and I prayed that my sweet grandfather be with my unborn child and be with them throughout this life on this Earth. And I continued to repeat: “do not stress otherwise you could stress the baby.” 

Life continued. I nurtured my relationship with the baby and I swear I could sense the soul that was with me. 

During the end of my first trimester, I was in the gym locker room getting ready for the water aerobics class for pregnant women and decided to go to the bathroom before getting in the water.

Nothing seemed unusual until I wiped and saw a small red line on the toilet paper. I was baffled. My swimsuit was not red, so it could not be lint. I looked down into the toilet and there I saw drops of blood delicately falling into the water and the world stood still as I watched the drip…drip…drip. 

I failed. 

That scene of dripping blood would haunt me in the years to come and it plays so clearly in my head, imprinted for eternity. 

I rushed to the hospital, calling my husband along the way. The emergency room staff quickly took me in the back, checked my vitals as I shakily sniffled into a box of tissues. I tried my best to not think the worst and repeated in a mantra inside my head “Do not stress otherwise you could stress the baby. Do not stress otherwise you could stress the baby. Do not stress otherwise you could stress the baby.”

My husband arrived and held my hand as the technician preformed an ultrasound. The air was thick with silence, only broken by the clicks of the computer mouse. 

The technician left quickly, came back with a random doctor and they reported that I needed to see an OBGYN tomorrow to get checked again. They had no answers they could give me. Years later I realized, they did not have an OBGYN on call anytime soon to tell me the news officially…but they knew. 

I left my car at the ER, my husband drove us home while giving all our family members an update. All I remember on the drive home was resting my head on the window and feeling my brain slowly shutting down. Completely numbness. I do not remember that night or anyone I talked with. 

Suddenly I was in the waiting room of the OBGYN the next day. No relocation of how I got there, but I was not even processing that this was something strange…to suddenly be missing time. I was just there, with my husband holding my hand, waiting for my name to be called.

A nurse called us back and I sat down on a table, ready for another ultrasound. Again the air was thick with silence, only broken by the clicks of the computer mouse. This time the nurse was sweet, held my hand and apologized “I’m so sorry sweetie. There is no heartbeat. I’m going to get the doctor.”

Out she went, while silent tears ran down my face. Still numb. I did not understand what was happening and what would happen next.

The OBGYN arrived, brought us to a room set up like a study, double checked the images, and informed us that the baby had actually stopped developing a few weeks ago but my body kept on developing as if it was still pregnant. This was a miscarriage and she explained the steps we would have to take next to ensure the miscarriage was fully out of me or I could go septic. All the words were foreign to me and seemed to be garbled. 

And I simply asked “If my baby died weeks ago, who was I talking to this whole time?” And if mental health had a sound, you would be able to hear a loud crack as my mind, heart and soul broke.