When it happens again...and again...

When we lost Sammy in August of 2010, I thought my life was over.  I knew that I would never be the same.  I was angry at everyone and everything, I was in disbelief as I slowly worked my way through all the stages of grief. I think that what helped the most, was another pregnancy 10 months later.  The prospect of a second child, another chance at a family gave me hope - although I should point out that my pregnancy was fraught with worry and fear, but I kept telling myself that lightning wouldn't strike twice.

By the time we were trying for our third baby, our only living daughter Sophie was 18 months and life seemed to finally be falling into place.  It took us 3 cycles to get pregnant and this time, I was confident that all would be fine, after all I had already been the 'one in four'.  When we learned that our third child, Asia, had two fatal diagnoses, my world fell apart...again.  My days were filled with prayer, pleading and begging that the diagnoses were wrong.  As the pregnancy progressed, I felt lulled in a blanket of hope that Asia would be born at term and we'd spend some time with her, take photos, hand moulds, etc. Her arrival was a whirlwind, unexpected, sudden and fast...and none of my plans came to fruition.  After her death, I fell into my grief as the anger and rage returned.  I was angry at the guy that cut me off on the road, at the deli lady because she didn't ask how I wanted my meat sliced, at the gas attendant for smiling and wishing me a good day.  I remember going grocery shopping for the first time and watching everyone else go about their business as if nothing had happened, when all I wanted to do was scream that I had just buried a second child.

By the time Asia died, both my husband and I were approaching 40.  Due to Asia's genetic issues, we were both tested [we're not carriers] but the geneticist also reviewed the statistics of genetic issues related to maternal age and the numbers increased.  Of course it depends on how you look at it - a 1 in 55 odds seems like a lot, but when converted to a 1.8% chance it doesn't seem so bad.  So one birth in 55 will have a genetic issue, but as my husband reminded me, it also means that 54 births will be just fine.  At what point were we comfortable with the numbers?  For us, we felt that we just didn't want to risk a genetic issue and would stop actively trying for a baby so that I would not be delivering past the age of 42.  For us, a maternal age of 42 was starting to get risky with genetic issues rising and that was our stopping point. We knew we had to decide this in advance because when you want a child so desperately, its easy to keep saying 'just one more month'.

Since we didn't have a lot of time, I shoved my grief aside and we dove back into trying for a sibling for Sophie. We were thrilled when within a short time frame, we were pregnant again. My numbers were low, but it was early and I BELIEVED that this heart-wrenching loss would NOT happen again ... but it did.  We suffered a chemical pregnancy.  I was lost. I was angry. I was spent. But it wasn't the first or the last. Our chemical pregnancy was followed by five more, month after month after month.  By the time the second positive test showed up, my hope and resilient belief that this baby would live began to wane, and that hope and glimmer of a future as a family of 4 was getting fainter and fainter.  By the time we were going through our 6th chemical pregnancy, I had come to expect a loss.  A positive pregnancy test was met with fear and anxiety and waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. It was getting harder and harder to grieve, not only because I had a 2 year old that required attention during the day, but also because I think my brain was trying to protect my heart.  I would go through the motions of the day and focus on Sophie, but when the house was quiet my heart would bleed for every little soul who was a transient visitor in our lives.  I spent many nights weeping for the futures that these children would never have.  At least with Asia, we had the chance to see her, hold her, kiss her and spend time with her, but these 6 little angels left no tangible proof of their existence - no ultrasound, no photos.  I would climb into bed in the middle of the night while holding Asia's ashes wrapped in a baby blanket and I would fall asleep crying, trying not to wake Sophie and my sleeping husband.

Our TTC journey continued with no success for several months.  My feeling were all over the map - hope and fear all intermingled, a thousand 'what if's' running through my mind.  Finally, last month, we saw another positive test and again all was going well...until it wasn't.  I was 7.5 weeks pregnant when I started miscarrying our 10th child [our 9th loss].  The anger and frustration returned with a vengeance and is still here today. I'm at a loss as to what to say, how to feel...

How could this happen to us over and over and over and over again?  Had we not fulfilled every statistical requirement?  Why do we keep 'winning' this lottery?  Perhaps we should just stop trying...but then I remember how thrilled we were to hear the news of a baby finally joining our family and that restores an inkling of hope.  But the sadness and grief is all consuming.  I go through the motions of each day, trying to keep it together, but the tears are there, right under the surface.  I feel extremely sad and frustrated and ... defeated.  We have a few more months left in our journey and I don't know if I have the energy or stamina to keep going.  I feel like my world is crumbling - death after death after death. I'm so pessimistic that even when something good happens, I freely admit that I wait knowingly until something bad happens.  I've been robbed of the naïveté of a worry free pregnancy or a worry free birth.  I see someone I know announce a pregnancy and I hear a voice in my head saying 'Don't be so sure...bad things happen all the time'.  I feel like the downer, the pessimist who can't be happy for someone else.  It's like a dark cloud hanging over my head right now.  And this sadness and depression has spilled over to other areas of my life.  I feel lost as to what my purpose is - its clear what my purpose is NOT.  I'm not a good mother to Sophie right now as my grief and anger blind me, complicated by her defiant spirit at 3 years old.  Due to no support on our previous losses, we haven't mentioned to anyone what we are going through and that in itself is very isolating and lonely.  I feel like a hermit living in a vibrant and social place - yet still alone, isolated and lonely.

I don't know how to pick up all these pieces.  I don't know how to move forward, how to walk away from that place of grief where I am now.  I don't know if I can bear one more BBQ or dinner where I smile and pretend it's all ok.  How many more times will we go through this? Will we ever have a baby join our family? Will Sophie ever have a sibling??  How am I supposed to go on and LIVE, when 9/10 of our babies DIED?  And 9/10 or 90% rate of death is a crazy high number, no matter how you look at it!