Saturday, March 07, 2009


I had really hoped, after Hannah, not to have a period again. I didn't really think too much about why. After all, no one wants to get periods. They're messy and inconvenient.

I thought that getting pregnant with Hannah fixed everything--that it meant I worked now. That I wouldn't have to go through all that stuff any more. My depression was healed. I figured my infertility was healed. The same people that said "if you adopt, you'll get pregnant" (not that I believed them, or it influenced my decisions) also said "once you have one, you'll have more" with plenty of anecdotal evidence to back it up. And I did believe them.

When my period started coming back I looked at the bright side--at least it meant I was probably becoming fertile again. I didn't think about the possibility it might happen again. I don't know why, really. I guess I just figured that I was fixed, that everything worked.

I have been trying to enjoy Hannah. I know there's no guarantee I'll have more, and that even if I do I want to enjoy her. She's getting so big, and it would be so much harder if I thought I might not have another. That thought had occurred to me.

Even when it started I didn't think that's what it was. I passed some tissue. I looked at it. It didn't look like a baby--but at 10 days it wouldn't. It wasn't much--but how much would there be at ten days? There wasn't a lot of pain, like with Ruby--but Ruby was 21 days. I ended up calling the nurse hotline from our insurance.

She was using some sort of diagnostic tool (like WebMD). She was very nice and very talkative. I asked how I could tell the difference between a very early miscarriage and a heavy period. A blood test, she said, or maybe having the tissue analyzed. She said she'd send me more information in the mail. She said it sounded to her like I probably had a miscarriage. She also thought I might need medical care right away. I told her I'd had these symptoms before, and I didn't think so. She said to get care if the symptoms got worse or I felt faint.

I called my doctor's office yesterday. I talked to a nurse. She didn't know how you could tell an early miscarriage from a heavy period. She would talk to the doctor and get back to me. There is no way to tell. A blood test wouldn't show anything--not at ten days. I asked the nurse if there were other explanations for what I'd seen. She said it could be uterine tissue. But there's no way to tell.

I cried last night. I think it had finally sunk in.

The internet says that Metformin might help with recurrent early miscarriage associated with PCOS. My doctor had mentioned it for insulin resistence, but not for this (and she knew that I had a history of possible early miscarriages, I think). Presumably she didn't know about those studies. So I have emailed her about that. I have decided to cut refined sugars out of my diet, cold turkey. That's the only thing I can think that might have been different with Hannah; I might have been off candy then. I'm also going to get back to exercising more, but that's a seasonal thing. I don't know what might or might not help. But if I can give my babies a better chance, I want to.

I am so grateful for my baby girl. Maybe she's just a miracle; maybe she will never have biological brothers and sisters on this earth. At timees it still seems unreal, after more than 18 months since her conception, that I could have a baby. A daughter. I am sad right now. I am so afraid of losing her. I love her.

I don't know how I can keep going through this. But what choice do I have? To risk never holding another newborn is a greater risk than to risk losing another baby. To love at all is to risk loss. I can't think what form of birth control I could justify, because I am not at any physical risk. And I think God knows more than I do, and I wouldn't want to thwart His will. And my children--God knows them. He created them, and He is infinitely capable of caring for them. I do not even know how many I have, but he knows how many cells were in their tiny bodies. I have never seen them, but I think--more likely than not--they are gazing on His face. I will never hold them, or teach them; I will never know their voices or their gifts. They will know nothing but being loved by their Father in Heaven. No, it is certainly not better for them never to have existed. There is no loss for them. And someday I will know how many children I have; I will hug them and love them.

But for now I have grief and pain, and the awesome responsibility of training up a single, beautiful miracle. To die is gain, but to live is Christ. God, use me.

He is my Stone of Help.

Ebenezer Cooper

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