While many might argue that 2020 was the hardest year, for me, it was 2015 that took the cake. That year was filled with personal trials, overshadowed by the collective struggles we all faced in 2020, including a pandemic, natural disasters, and the loss of icons like Kobe Bryant. Despite the difficulties of 2020, my family and I were fortunate to have our health, jobs, and home. But in 2015, we were in the midst of a heart-wrenching journey: trying to expand our family.
By 2015, we were deep into what I called “Operation: Have Another Baby.” Anyone who has experienced infertility understands the exhausting cycle of hope and heartache. I was diagnosed with Idiosyncratic Secondary Infertility, which served as a cold reminder that my body, which had succeeded in giving life once, was now failing me in trying to do so again.
On the eve of my 30th birthday, I took a pregnancy test—one of many, but this time it was different. To my overwhelming joy, it was positive! We were thrilled and immediately began planning how to share the news with our daughter, Emma. We even bought her a little gift to break the news that she would soon have a sibling.
Amidst this joyful anticipation, I was also grappling with the impending loss of my beloved grandmother, who had been battling cancer. We had planned a trip to visit her that August, but time slipped away, and she passed on July 10, 2015. That day, I shared my pregnancy news with her, a bittersweet moment I will always cherish.
In the days that followed, I found myself battling a nagging unease about the pregnancy. Despite the joy, I felt something wasn’t right. I visited the ER due to some spotting, where my friend, Sarah, was a nurse. I was reassured that everything looked fine, but my apprehension lingered.
A few days later, during my first ultrasound, the worst news came: there was no heartbeat. The doctor’s nonchalant remarks about the size of the fetus and the nature of early miscarriages only added to my anguish. I felt utterly broken.
After a harrowing night in the ER, where I experienced the physical pain of a miscarriage, I returned home to an empty house, grappling with the emotional aftermath. The loss of Blueberry, as we had affectionately named the baby, was profound. I felt lost, angry at my body, at the healthcare system, and at my husband, Mark, for reasons I couldn’t articulate.
Despite the heartache, the support from friends helped me navigate through the darkest days. Eventually, I told myself that while grief was inevitable, I couldn’t allow it to immobilize me.
Looking back, I realize that the trials of 2015 prepared me for the challenges of 2020. The losses and heartaches I endured taught me resilience. Even in the face of loss, I learned that I could keep moving forward, one day at a time.
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