Third Time's Still Not the Charm

They tell you to wait until you’re twelve weeks pregnant to announce, because the risk of miscarriage decreases greatly. I was so excited to write a beautiful blog post to discretely announce how all my pain of losing my sweet Benjamin and baby Houston was finally coming to a great conclusion of a new baby, Houston #2.

 

Thanks to Letterfolk for this amazing piece of creativity!

I’d grown so anxious waiting for a positive pregnancy test, that a couple months ago, Zach and I decided to stop trying. But then, after getting back from our honeymoon, we took a test with such doubt that I even told him, “ready to see some more negative?” And then it was positive. And we couldn’t believe it. We even took precautions to avoid pregnancy for this cycle. We looked at the test in complete disbelief.

But I still was in doubt. I didn’t want to get excited. God has taken two babies from me already. I know his style with me, so I refused to tell people about the news and just decided to continue existing until I actually knew it was real.

When I was eight weeks along, just 4 weeks ago, Zach and I went to see by OB and get an ultrasound. I was feeling better about this pregnancy because it had already lasted two weeks longer than Houston 1, and I had so many symptoms so I knew that I had plenty enough pregnancy hormones. Then there was baby Houston 2 was on the screen, tiny and perfect with a strong heartbeat. And I couldn’t believe it. My baby was real! The doctor was pleased with the ultrasound, and my blood work was great. We started getting excited and going to baby stores, even starting a registry and picking out Baby Shower invitations.

Then three and a half weeks later, something was wrong. I couldn’t get miscarriage out of my head. I was having these horrible dreams of miscarrying at work and my friends finding me in a pile of blood, weeping. I thought to myself, maybe I just miss Ben horribly, which is so true.

But then it all came true. I called my mom while I was at work, and told her I was bleeding, so she rushed me to the emergency room.

They kept asking me if I knew I was pregnant, if I had it even confirmed by a legitimate doctor (because apparently a married, 20-year-old who has a full time job and double insurance coverage still makes me an irresponsible child; their tone with me was disgusting.) I got admitted, sent to triage and waited. They poked and prodded and examined and ultrasounded the heck out of me. When the technician left, she had this face; you know the face, the one that says “she’s going to hate what I found out.”

I called my husband and told him where I was and he stayed on the phone until he had to go to work. We kept telling each other to not panic until we knew something real. He kept repeating it, willing it to come true. He googled about bleeding while being pregnant, and we couldn’t really find anything that related to my case.

Then the sweet doctor came in and sat on his stool with that same face. I held my breath. I was willing him to tell me I was wrong for coming in, that it was a waste because everything was going to be okay.

“After looking at your ultrasound pictures, along with your bleeding, we see every sign of miscarriage. The baby is sizing a little over eight weeks, and his heart isn’t functioning the way we expect it to.”

So that’s that. He’s not even dead yet, but I’m still miscarrying. Three days before I was about to be safe enough to announce. So we were discharged, we went home, and we waited for everything to pass.

I went to work the next two days because I wasn’t in pain. And then I started my weekend after that. We went to the doctor and got more ultrasounds, this time confirming that the baby’s heart hat stopped beating, and had not grown for four weeks. We listened to all of our options of what to do to get him out and chose a medication regiment so we could avoid surgery.

We went to the store, but the prescriptions wouldn’t be ready for another day. So we went home, and due course came instead.

I’ll keep this gross part simple—miscarriage, even just at 8 weeks, felt like the normal birthing process with contractions for an hour, no comfortable positions and lots of hospital smells. The only difference is no baby at the end of all of it.

Our pretty pot from Carpinitos and some flowers are
the perfect resting place for Baby Houston 2

Zach and I decided to get some soil and some flowers to plant for our sweet baby, and an hour after the miscarriage, with the pain medicine fully kicked in, we headed towards Fred Meyer. I stayed in the car (because I wasn’t wearing pants and I was tired of everything.) After a couple minutes I looked down and saw red.

 After a speedy trip home to get towels, I was back in the ER with severe hemorrhaging. When they realized it wasn’t stopping, even after I told them it wasn’t stopping (apparently they had to see for themselves), I was immediately prepped for surgery, and sent to the operating room for a D&C. My dad and my neighbor Nathan were able to come give me a priesthood blessing right before I had to go in. The OR was cold and so so big for just one little me and a 20 minute procedure. But I got on the bed and they put me out in less than 10 seconds. I like anesthesia. Who needs anxiety when you have anesthesia?

I woke up, they fed me ice and told me everything went well. All I feel now is pain from the breathing tube and less of a bloated feeling. I don’t remember much, just that everything was cold.

They say “third time’s a charm” but you have to remember how much God/Karma/Life hates me. How can I be expected to stay positive, to have hope, to endure losing three babies in two and a half years? My heart is completely shattered and my hope is gone and I don’t even want to try anymore. Because I can guarantee you that next time, God will take my baby away again, and again, and again. How can I watch addicts and people who don’t even want a baby conceive and deliver and keep their child when I’m sitting here suffering because God hates me? People keep announcing they’re pregnant, and showing their baby bumps, and showing off their newborns. And it’s KILLING ME. I’m literally dying inside.

The worst part is this: I thought, you know, maybe God won’t hate me so much if I started going back to church. So I went above and beyond, I’ve gone to church every week, participated, started reading the scriptures again, even taking lessons with the sister missionaries, studying Gospel Principles together, and we taught him some more church songs. Me and Zach are doing our part.

He literally hates me. He can’t just let me keep my pregnancy. That’s just too much apparently. It would make me happy, so He has to make sure it doesn’t come true.

Help me understand why everyone I know says I deserve to be a mother, and yet here I am, 20 years old, having lost 3 babies.

And now He's hurting Zach. And anyone who knows Zach knows that he doesn't deserve to feel this kind of pain.

///// I get to see Ben soon, hopefully within a month. For now, here is the cutest little woo of him fishing!