January 15, 2004

I don't usually get very emotional about my past losses. Quite honestly, that seems like a thousand years ago. Not to diminish the pain and suffering I went through, because it was profoundly devastating at the time, but I mentally moved on from all that a few years ago, when Sofia was born. It became very clear to me that I was meant to have this gorgeous, amazing daughter & beautiful twins and I would not have had them if I'd had my other babies. I try to stay pretty zen about all of it, but every now and again, I have moments of sadness. It's like a scar where the skin has grown over, to the point of being barely visible, but every once in a while it will itch or sort of puff out.

Today is one of those days.

Today is the 5 year anniversary of my first loss, at 13 weeks. January 15, 2004. It was a turning point in my life, when I realized that bad things can happen - anytime, anywhere. Things obviously worked out for me in the end (3 kids later) but it still was something I will never forget, never stop thinking about (how could a fetus be fine at 12 weeks and be dead 4 days later?), never second guess myself about (was it a girl or boy? was there something wrong with him/her? why didn't I get genetic testing done??)

From my blog entry "How I Got Here."

Then, it happened. I finally got a positive HPT. Due to some early spotting, I was reserved in my exuberance. The first ultrasound was wonderful; the baby measured perfectly and there was a beautiful, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh heartbeat. At 12 weeks, we excitedly went for a nuchal scan and that went swimmingly too. The measurement was ideal and my husband and I walked out of that appointment with a spring in our step. We had made it past the first trimester, things looked good and we would be able to tell people our exciting news. We spent the next week emailing and calling our closest friends and family and word spread quickly.

One week later, I went to my 13 week OB appt and there was no heartbeat. At first, the doctor chalked it up to my being overweight and sent me for an ultrasound. I wasn't very concerned as I was still horribly nauseous, even sitting in the waiting room.

I will never forget the life altering moment when the ultrasound tech got quiet, then reached over, put her hand on my knee and said, "I'm sorry, honey." The week before, all was well and now, my baby was gone. It was literally like being hit by a truck. Being a newbie to the world of pregnancy loss, I didn't push for any genetic testing, so I will never know the gender or exactly was wrong, if anything. This is something that haunts me, to this day.

After having to visit a "special" OB who is licensed to handle 12+ week D&E's, I spent about a week in a Vicodin induced haze, snuggled up with my cats. I eventually returned to work, which became somewhat of a refuge for me. One of the most painful aspects of the experience was that for many months afterward, I was still being congratulated, having to awkwardly explain what had happened. Apparently good news travels fast, but bad news? Not so much. I was so thankful I had not shared the news with most of my co-workers. I threw myself back into my work.

I remember so many people telling me it was meant to be, God works in mysterious ways, it was better to have this happen rather than have a child with a genetic defect. I remember my best friend's reaction at the time. "That was a baby. You lost a baby."

Rest in peace, little one. You are not forgotten.