Found and Lost

The first few months of marriage are usually a transition. Mine have been more of a tidal wave. I started living with Taylor right after our June wedding, but the new tenants for my old place didn’t move in until Labor Day weekend. In the interim, we (mostly Taylor and my dad) executed the slowest move ever, involving no traditional packing and endless tears of nostalgia and overwhelm from me. Until this week, we were drowning in piles of unsorted stuff at our house (the piles have now migrated to the attic.) Meanwhile, I’m learning to live with someone for the first time in almost a decade. We’re figuring out things like who does what chores, our morning routine, and how best to get our introvert time.

I was prepared for these adjustments to married life. I was not prepared to also get pregnant almost immediately, and then to lose the baby at eight weeks.

In my heart, I truly didn’t believe I could get pregnant. I tried unsuccessfully for a year or two in my first marriage, and despite multiple tests showing nothing wrong with me, I still suspected I was the problem (even though I now believe God was protecting me). As I got divorced and remained single through my 30s, I gradually accepted that I wouldn’t get another chance to have kids. This acceptance was expedited by watching most of my women friends have babies and go through multiple circles of hell. By the time I met Taylor, I was pretty comfortable with being a cool aunt forever. Together we decided that we would give kids a shot, but our happiness and life plan wouldn’t hinge on it. Statistically, the chances of getting pregnant at my age are slim. I figured a couple of years would pass, nothing would happen, we’d be a little sad but move on with life, invest in our families and community, and generally be awesome.

So a positive pregnancy test after a few weeks of marriage was the shock of my life. On one hand, it felt like a big confirmation that I’m with the right person this time. On the other hand, we had barely started merging our households. I had barely even started changing my name. We hadn’t found our new normal yet. We hadn’t had our fun newlywed time. There’s no room for a nursery in our house. For the first few days, I mostly freaked out. I also felt weirdly embarrassed, like some naïve teenager getting pregnant in the backseat of a car. Taylor kept reassuring me that we have all the support we need and could handle it. Slowly, I started to wrap my head and heart around what was happening. The turning point came around six weeks. While (safely) exercising, I felt a distinct difference in my body, a new awareness that Something Was There. After that, my enthusiasm and optimism started to ramp up. I frequently updated Taylor on the current size of the baby (usually some kind of candy or seed). I felt pretty good – just tired and a little bleah in the evenings. We went to Miami for a weekend and talked about our hopes and plans for parenthood while floating in the ocean. I started having hopes and plans for parenthood. I thought any maternal instincts I’d had were long gone, but day by day, they were being activated.

Of course, we tried to keep in mind that the pregnancy might not last. We decided not to tell anyone until after my initial eight-week OB appointment, which happened to fall the Monday after my 40th birthday weekend. (I drank non-alcoholic sangria at my party to avoid suspicion.) Over that weekend, I noticed some concerning signs but knew they could also be normal, so I wasn’t too worried at first. Unfortunately, things escalated and by the time we went to the doctor, it was pretty clear what was happening. Instead of the happy appointment I’d looked forward to, we got confirmation that I was miscarrying. I’d gotten on board with this surprise life change, and now it was like nope, just kidding.

1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage. I know more women who have miscarried than haven’t, and obviously they’ve shared about it if I know about it. But even though women are talking more about miscarriage, even though we know the legit medical reasons and that we didn’t cause it and couldn’t have prevented it, there’s still an underlayer of shame and secrecy. A lot of people still consider it taboo or uncouth to bring up. That carries over to the workplace, so women have to attempt to show up and act professional in the midst of a traumatic and physically miserable experience (side note: my boss is amazing and her having my back has meant everything; yet another reason why we need more women in leadership). Miscarriage is scary and isolating. It’s a loss of control that no amount of resilience can prepare you for. I won’t take on the added burden of acting like it didn’t happen. This is my way of helping to normalize sharing about this very common experience. I don’t want to be dramatic about it, but I also don’t want to talk and write around it for the rest of my life. Starting to become a mom has changed me. If we eventually have a healthy baby, I will always know it wasn’t my first. I’ll always love this baby and feel sad that I missed out on knowing him (I feel it was a him). I want to be able to acknowledge him, and the experience, in a straightforward way.

I also want the people in my life to understand why I’m a little off lately. I’m okay, but I’m also not okay. It’s only been a few weeks. I’m still processing everything – not just this, but all the changes of the summer – and feel like I have a suppressed emotional/mental immune system. I cry and get overwhelmed very easily. I still feel sad when I see pregnant women or new babies. I probably jumped back into my regular routines too fast. I had great intentions of diving into goal-setting and new challenges in this new chapter of my life, but now I need some time (possibly the rest of 2019 :P) to rest, re-calibrate, and ease up the pressure on myself. I also want everyone to know Taylor has been a supportive, caring, brave partner throughout this whole experience. This was a lot of stress to put on a brand-new marriage, but I think we’ve come through it even stronger. I love him very much.

In conclusion, I was due at the end of March. I considered that a very convenient time to have a baby, except for one thing: March Madness. Obviously it’s unlikely that the Tigers will go to the Final Four next year, but not impossible, since we have the #1 recruiting class in America. Taylor and I are dead set on going if we ever make it that far again, and I was disappointed thinking I could miss it. I imagined myself yelling at the TV while in labor, pushing nurses out of the way to see the game. Well, now I’m available again, so redeem my pain, Tigers. 2020 is the year. See you in Atlanta.