By Heather Schultz
The last time I was pregnant I went in for an ultrasound that was anything but routine. I was nearly seven weeks along, and while many women do not receive a sonogram until they are halfway through a pregnancy, I am a different case. Because I have had several unexplained miscarriages — five to date — they watch me much more closely.
I had felt mildly nauseated and ravenously hungry, both of which I took as good signs. I thought perhaps this pregnancy would be the one to stick. But in a more jaded moment, as I confided my happy news to friends, I lamented, “Now I have something to lose.” I was trying to be realistic. Most of the time for me, pregnancy does not result in a baby. I am never quite sure when to get excited anymore.
Nevertheless, as I drove to the clinic, I felt at peace. I even felt hopeful. After all, I was having symptoms of pregnancy. I had calculated my due date to be sometime in January, which seemed fitting. In January we celebrate Epiphany, a time of illumination or realization of something profound. I had also felt that my previous pregnancy (which had ended in miscarriage) was due to fruition at the best possible time — October. October redeemed, I mused. The previous October, my brother, Eric, had been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, advanced stomach cancer. He was not expected to live more than a year. I was heartbroken. Even the most accurate sources could only tell me how most people with stage 4 stomach cancer fare. No one could tell me how Eric would. I knew the numbers were grim.
In the context of my brother’s battle with stomach cancer, my own losses seem small and insignificant. Throughout his ordeal, Eric has wanted to know what is going on in my life. He wants to know how I am coping with my own losses. Your struggles are your struggles, he assures me. Your pain is your pain. He is genuinely concerned for me and what makes my heart ache.
So yes, October seemed a fitting time for my baby’s birth, I thought as I lay on the ultrasound table. Maybe I would have a boy and I could name him Eric. Eric is a warrior. Eric is a caring soul. Eric is beloved.
Then the energy in the room shifted ever so slightly, and the nurse’s voice interrupted my thoughts and said the words to me in low and soothing tones: No baby.
I felt a cool blue calm settle over me as she pointed to the screen and showed me the sac where my baby would have grown. It was empty. Maybe there was an embryo and it had been reabsorbed by my body. Or maybe the sac had developed on its own and there was never a baby despite what my body had been hinting. My body betrayed me. Apparently I can’t trust how I feel.
But in that moment, I didn’t feel much of anything. I simply got dressed and followed the nurse to the next room where we discussed my options. I left the clinic on that warm June morning with a picture of my empty yolk sac in hand, praying I would start to bleed soon. I didn’t want any drugs or procedures. I didn’t want any of this. “Do I really have to do this again?” I thought as I crossed the parking lot to my car. I am sick to death of doing this.
I looked at my to-do list for the day: Go to plant nursery to pick out a gift for Annie’s teacher. Stop by butcher for steaks to grill. Pick Annie up from school and take her out for ice cream to celebrate her last day of kindergarten. Nope, I’m afraid I’ve got no time to grieve today. I’ve got other things to do. Other things I much prefer doing. Can we do this another time?
I relayed the news of my fifth failed pregnancy first to my husband, then my mother. Then I went about my day feeling nothing except the increasing warmth of summer as the day progressed, the excitement of taking pictures on this milestone last day of my girl’s first year of school, the fun of selecting my flavor and toppings at the ice cream bar. I felt all these things, but I felt no sadness. Must I grieve for an empty yolk sac?
From the moment I’d heard the words “No baby,” I had decided I was finished with grief. Was I in denial of my feelings? Was I dishonoring my lost baby by not letting this grief touch me? It’s harder to celebrate and honor the loss of a miscarried baby when you’ve lost so many. This has happened to me over and over, and over and over, and over again. Five times over the course of seven years, with one successful birth in between. My losses all run together in my memory. I was simply ready to be done with it, not with trying to conceive another child. For some inexplicable reason I was willing to keep banging my head against that wall. But I was done with being sad.
My previous miscarriage had come at a particularly inopportune time: My daughter’s sixth birthday. We were hosting out-of-town family, and Annie was having a pool party. Anyone who spends time with Annie and I over the summer knows that we share a passion for the pool. But not for her sixth birthday party. I was miscarrying my baby, and, therefore, I was told by my health-care provider that I could not join in the swimming because I would risk infection from the pool water. Bummer. But my family had come to celebrate my daughter, it was unseasonably warm for February, and my spirits were high. Could I put off my grief for a few more days? Why not? I felt surprisingly good. I had just received the news my pregnancy would fail and I was beginning to bleed, but I still did not feel sad. I was thankful for the continued reprieve.
A couple of days after Annie’s birthday, I invited a friend over for coffee. She knew I was having a miscarriage and she expressed her sadness and concern for me. Then over the course of our conversation, she proceeded to tell me that she was pregnant and due in October when I would have been due. I responded the way one generally responds when someone shares happy news: Congratulations! As soon as she left my house, I went to my room and cried the rest of the afternoon.
I tried to make sense of it in my head: My friend knows I am miscarrying my October baby. My friend knows I have miscarried several babies. My friend cares for me. Why does she share her happy news while I am still bleeding and then tell me not to tell anyone else because she is not ready to share yet?
After I had cried my eyes out and blown my nose, I was angry. I didn’t say anything to my friend, but I took a step back from the friendship for a little while. And in the meantime I wondered: Am I giving people the impression that I am not hurting deeply just below the surface? In my efforts to live and love my life today, am I sending the message that I can handle more? More news, more challenges, more responsibility, more anything?
Because the truth is, I can’t. I cannot handle any more. I have reached my limit. It is enough for me to take care of myself and my little family and my small responsibilities with church and school and community. It is enough. And although I do not like to admit it to others and even to myself, I am in pain. I hurt every day. I avert my eyes when I see a pregnant woman in public. I may not even know her, and yet her success reminds me of my failures. I won’t look at newborn babies, either. They are so perfect and sweet and alive in ways that mine will never be. I pretend not to see them because it hurts me immensely. But I don’t like to remind people that I am the girl in pain, because over time that gets dull. Who wants to talk to that girl? Who wants to be that girl? Not me.
Growing up, my mother routinely told me, “We choose to be happy.” I thought this was bullsh*t. I feel what I feel. I don’t choose what I feel.
That was then. I have little control over whether or not I get pregnant and no control over whether I maintain a pregnancy. I have no control over whether or not my brother survives his illness. But I do have control over my thoughts and my feelings. If I so choose, I could allow my fears related to Eric’s condition to permeate my every waking thought. If I so choose, I could allow the pain and disappointment of my miscarriages to fester into bitterness and crowd out any lasting joy. I could, but I won’t.
Someone recently gave me a book entitled, “How To Stop the Pain.” I have yet to crack it open. I’m not sure we are supposed to stop pain. I think we are to keep moving through it, like walking into the wind. If I stand still in this gale, it could easily blow me over. So I turn my face into the wind and I keep pushing through it, one slow step after another. I feel myself grow stronger for the effort. Sometimes I even imagine that I grow taller as I walk, because happiness in the face of sorrow, loss and uncertainty brings us to new heights.
I would not have chosen this path for myself. But I also would not choose any other.
Heather Schultz grew up in northern Michigan and has lived in the Champaign-Urbana area for 14 years. Her passions include singing, kickboxing, and volunteering in the community. Heather lives in Savoy with her husband Charles and their 7-year-old daughter Annie.