A losing streak like no other

The very event that was supposed to bring our family so much joy has instead brought nothing but heartache. This pregnancy was so wanted, so loved. I never even contemplated that such a miraculous blessing could go so wrong.

After undergoing surgery in March for my ectopic pregnancy, my levels quickly dropped from 4,000 to 200 within a week. My doctor assured me that he anticipated no further problems. Then the following week, my bloodwork showed that my hormone levels had climbed again to 600. When a second test came back at 900, my doctor called to discuss further treatment.

When you have a "persistent ectopic pregnancy" the only real option you're given is a drug called methotrexate. This is a chemotherapy drug that prevents your body from absorbing or processing folate - which rapidly dividing cells need to live. So it works on cancer and on fetal tissue.

I asked for alternatives. There were none. I asked for time. There was none. I had no option but to take an injection of a chemical so toxic that they enter the room with hazmat suits and buckets. They check the needle entry site a few minutes after the injection for chemical skin burns. They incinerate anything this substance touches. And they injected it into my body.

It's made me sick. It's made me tired. It's really like having a bad hangover for a week. Let's just say that I have a whole new appreciation for cancer patients who have to take the shot on a regular basis.

It's not the physical effects of the drugs that have really set me back in my healing. This pregnancy not only stole my dream of adding a third child to our family, but with the chemo, it also took from me a special bond with Fliss. With the drug in my system, I could no longer nurse Felicity. I was forced to wean her without any warning. Without any gentle weaning. One day she happily nursed for comfort and nutrition, the next day that option was stolen from her. From us.

I feel like I'm mourning another loss. With our breastfeeding relationship ended, Fliss is no longer my baby, but a big girl. That one thing that I could give her and no one else could is gone. She still asks for her "neh-nehs" five days later. Still slides fluttery fingers down to stroke my chest. And when I tell her that her nursies are broken, she looks at me with those giant blue eyes as if she can understand that I feel the same loss that she does.

Perception is everything

My pastor came to visit me this week to talk about Libi. Being relatively new to our church, I was looking forward to getting to know Mark on a more personal level. I hoped that perhaps he would pray for our family and maybe give me some answers as to why these things happen. What I didn't anticipate was his ability to completely change my way of thinking and in one hour advance my healing more than I've done in two weeks.

Mark told me that he believes that pregnancy is the bridge between the physical world and the spiritual world. It's such a special time for the mama because she's the only one who truly knows and connects with this new soul for nine whole months.

He told me that he believes that when a baby passes in utero or shortly thereafter, that soul is not lost. He or she does not head back to heaven to spend the rest of their days. That soul just waits patiently for another chance to cross into the physical world. He told me to think about my losses not as seven lost babies, but seven times that this soul has attempted to join our family. He said this must be a very tenacious soul who knows that for some reason, the timing is not quite right.

I can't tell you what this change in view has done for me. I no longer feel that I have seven dead babies in my heart. Instead, I feel almost a peace knowing that Libi will one day return in huggable form. I feel encouraged to continue our efforts to grow our family (in time). If this little soul has tried so hard to enter our world, the least I can do is open the door one more time.

Healing hearts

Every so often, my husband does something so spectacularly thoughtful that I fall in love with him all over again. Last night was one of those occasions.

Adam had run some mystery errands earlier in the night. Vague and deflective about where he was, I figured that he was up to no good, buying video games or gun paraphernalia.

Boy was I wrong.

When I went upstairs to go to bed, I cleared off the three baskets of clean laundry from my bed. When I turned around to flop myself into bed, I realized there was a little pile sitting on my pillow. A solitary red rose, a gift box, and a card.

Written on the envelope was this:

Inside was a card which immediately sent me into tears. Adam wrote every supportive word a grieving mother would want to hear. He was sensitive and touching and loving.

Inside the cardboard box was this:
A gorgeous hardwood box with a painting of a winter fairy on top. Given that it snowed the day we lost Libi, it was just perfect. But nothing prepared me for what was inside....
A heart shaped locket with Libi's name and the date that we lost her engraved onto the silver. Inside, Adam had printed the words "Never met, Never forgotten."

I bawled. I cried so hard that I made no noise. I then went downstairs and curled myself in his lap with my arms around his neck for what seemed like hours. With his thoughtful gesture, he had memorialized the little girl we lost. He had acknowledged my pain. He had given me something beautiful to remember her by. He reaffirmed that my choice in a life mate was the best decision I've ever made.

In the fairy box now rest the pregnancy tests that heralded her existence, the hospital band that signifies the end of her journey, and a little piece of my soul. I hope that someday her spirit returns to us so that I can replace the words in my locket with pictures of a little girl who found her way back.

Losing Libi and finding my way

I know this little baby was just a little gummy bear in shape. Only the size of a blueberry. But to me, she was my child. I had a strong feeling from the start this this child was a girl. I have named her Libi. It feels right that with the amount of love I had for her, that she have a proper name. Libi means love or beloved in Hebrew. It seems very fitting.

My body is healing quickly. The incisions are sealing and the bruising has surfaced. My belly is slowly deflating and the bleeding has ceased. The pain is becoming manageable and I have been moving more easily.

What I'm left with are the residual hormones of pregnancy. I feel as pregnant today as I did a week ago. I have morning sickness, pregnancy fog, a keen sense of smell, sore breasts...my body doesn't seem to realize that there is no baby left to nurture. It seems a cruel reminder of what I have lost.

The lingering symptoms also worry me that perhaps the surgery didn't eliminate everything. That there may be a tiny piece of placenta remaining in my tube, still contributing to the hormonal soup inside of me. If this is the case, I have to take a chemotherapy drug to prevent those cells from dividing so that my body can reabsorb the offending tissue. This treatment would also mean that I'll have to wean Fliss. A secondary blow that I don't think I could handle right now.

I'll be taking blood tests every week to ensure that my pregnancy levels are falling and that they reach zero. I'm praying that my HcG starts to recede quickly. This daily reminder of what I wanted so badly is making it hard to heal my soul as quickly as my physical being. My emotional state lags far behind my scars.

I've been reminded a few times during my grieving that things could be much, much worse. There are stories out there that make my own pain seem insignificant. I've been guided to be thankful for the blessings I can count; my family, my friends, co coworkers, my church and congregation. These people stand behind me and lift me up. I am blessed with so much love and support.

Perhaps this was why I had to lose my little Libi. I needed to be reminded not to take life for granted. Every day is a blessing. Every person in my life a gift. Lesson learned.

Devastation

For nearly a year, Adam and I have been trying to create another little blessing to love. During this time, we've lost six tiny babies. It's been a hard time.

This past Monday, we received the best news I could imagine: my blood test confirmed that I had a healthy, growing baby about 6.5 weeks old. An ultrasound was planned for next week and I made my first appointment with the midwives. I felt as if our struggles were finally over and my faith had carried us through.

Then on Wednesday afternoon I began cramping. At first, it felt like normal early pregnancy pains but very quickly they progressed to be unbearable. I left work early and by the time I got home, I was in tears from the pain. Adam drove me straight to the ER.

Once there, I was triaged, medicated, scanned and diagnosed within an hour and a half. The pregnancy was ectopic. The baby had implanted itself in my right fallopian tube and was now big enough that there was a threat of the tube rupturing.

I had to sign a form consenting to them surgically removing the baby. Within six hours of arriving at the ER, I was put under and my little healthy, poorly-positioned baby was flushed from my body.

Up until the surgery, I was numb. It all seemed like a bad dream. I was sure they'd get in there and realize they were wrong. Why would God take away a baby that we had waited so long for? Why would He raise my hopes so high only to drag me lower than I've ever been before.

When I awoke from the sedation it all hit me. My baby was gone. I was no longer pregnant. No little pink bundle would be gracing our house in the fall. I was shattered. Although I know logically that this baby couldn't have grown to term in my tube, I feel like I consented to kill the one baby in 10 months of trying that was thriving inside of me.

Physically, I feel like I've been stabbed three times in my belly (it was laproscopic surgery). Emotionally I'm just destroyed. I've spent most of the past few days weeping and mourning the loss of our child and our dream of expanding our family. I know that my heart couldn't take another loss. I have two beautiful children and perhaps that was all I was meant to have.

I know that God tests us sometimes, but I just can't fathom the lesson I've been faced with in trying to grow our little family.