Two years goes by pretty quickly, unless you are me. Every minute, of every day of the last two years I have spent OBSESSING about having a baby. I knew it wasn't healthy, but I couldn't control it.
In November of 2007, I was finally given my ultimate desire. I was pregnant. 16 wonderful weeks later, I lost my little girl. I had been battling for her life for 1 month, and I lost. My body was fighting her for room in my uterus, as a 11 cm fibroid was starving her for space.
I hate the term miscarriage. It seems to imply that something intangible was lost. For four months, I dreamed of her face, her future, what it would be like to hold her. I saw her on the ultrasound screen, felt the joy of hearing her heart beat with mine. I felt the tiny flutter of a butterfly as she moved in my belly. Lastly, I saw her heartbeat slow on hospital monitors, I saw her give up the fight, and I gave birth to her on January 30th much too soon. She was only 5" tall and weighed just over 5 oz, but she was my daughter.
My best friend found out she was pregnant when I was ten weeks pregnant with my baby. We were so excited about being pregnant together. After my loss, I could barely look at my friend. It was a hard, confusing time.
I spent the next year in a depressed stupor. No one could give me answers as to why this happened. I decided to have a laproscopic myomectomy to remove the fibroid tumor from my uterus. For me, it was just as emotionally necessary as it was medically. The doctor's assured me that within three months, I would be "as good as new," and that my husband and I could try again.
I became obsessed with trying to get pregnant. I bought pregnancy tests and ovulation predictor kits in bulk. I saw doctors, and specialists, and went to acupuncture. As my life fell apart, I knew that the only thing that could put me back together was a baby. I longed to buy maternity clothes, and I despised pregnant women.
Three months went by, and we tried again. My second miscarriage happened when I was 11 1/2 weeks pregnant. My doctor had been concerned from the beginning of my pregnancy that it wasn't viable (another term I hate). I felt reassured at 7 weeks when I saw my baby's heartbeat on the ultrasound screen. Later the doctors told me that the babies heart probably stopped beating within days of when I saw it.
I have had two more miscarraiges since, and I was beginning to think that the whole in my heart would kill me. I read books, went to counseling, cried on my husbands shoulder, but nothing helped. I wish I had a better way to mourn my babies. It makes me angry to hear other women's stories and to realize that so many of us suffer alone. Why aren't there funerals? Why isn't there a special showing of support for babies lost? How are we supposed to move on if there is no proper way to grieve?
My obsession continued. New doctor's, new tests, new diagnoses, same pain. Last October, I threw my obsession in to the adoption process. Every waking moment of my life, I scoured the Internet looking for "our baby." In this case, my insanity paid off. 7 months later, my husband and I were flying to Jacksonville for the birth of the child we hoped would be ours.
Strangely enough, I was still obsessed with getting pregnant. I came home with our son, and got right back on the pregnancy bandwagon. What is this strange desire? An addiction? My inability to let go of a dream?
Today, I am letting go. Maybe I will give birth to a baby some day, maybe I won't. My overwhelming desire to have a child led me to my son. I realized just last night that my beautiful baby boy makes everything ok. I don't need anything else, and I don't want to invest any more time, energy, or tears wondering why my body can't stay pregnant.
People say to us all of the time, "Your baby is so lucky to have you." My answer is cliche, but true... it is me who is lucky. Macklin saved my life. I woke up yesterday, and I realized I no longer cared about being pregnant. My son healed my broken heart.
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