I learned I was pregnant just ten days prior to the events that would change everything. Although it was an unexpected surprise, my partner and I felt a wave of excitement. We had begun sharing the news with close family and friends. The night before, my partner was busy researching baby names, while I was brainstorming creative ways to announce the news to our children, especially with the holiday season approaching. We even contemplated finding out the baby’s gender, hoping for a boy to join our family and play football with his older brother someday. Then, without warning, I started to bleed—heavily.
The next morning, I told my partner about the bleeding and immediately called the clinic as soon as they opened. I was devastated and tearful, urging him to accompany me to the doctor’s office. On the way, I sobbed, “I’m sorry, maybe I didn’t want this baby enough. Maybe that’s why this is happening.” Despite knowing rationally that it wasn’t my fault, guilt consumed me.
After a blood test, my midwife informed me that my hCG levels were low, suggesting a likely miscarriage. She advised me to return for another test later that week. Returning home, I craved a shower to wash away the day’s pain, but as the water flowed, I watched the blood swirl down the drain. I was overwhelmed—could that really be my baby disappearing like that?
Two days later, I returned to the clinic for another blood test. To my surprise, my hCG levels had risen, albeit slightly. This unexpected news ignited a flicker of hope—perhaps I was not losing this baby after all. I found myself wrestling with conflicting thoughts: Should I continue planning how to share this news with my kids? Should I keep searching for baby names?
However, at my appointment the following Monday, my hCG levels rose again, but not as dramatically as they should have. An ultrasound was scheduled to rule out an ectopic pregnancy. After the ultrasound, my midwife delivered the heartbreaking news: there was nothing in my uterus. “So… no baby?” I asked, feeling the weight of her confirmation. “Right, it seems you’ve likely miscarried,” she replied. I cried once more, feeling a finality in the air.
The subsequent week brought unbearable physical pain—horrible cramping that left me unable to walk or drive. I called my nurse for advice, and she instructed me to go to the Emergency Room. There, tests revealed a mass in my left fallopian tube, measuring the size of a tennis ball. This was shocking; just a week prior, everything had appeared normal. The doctor indicated that I needed emergency surgery due to the mass’s size.
On September 19th, at eight weeks and two days pregnant, I lost my baby due to an ectopic pregnancy. The dual anguish of losing a child and enduring surgery became almost intolerable. I wanted to grieve, but the physical pain from the incision made it difficult to do so. I yearned for someone who understood this nightmare, someone who had experienced the same loss. I leaned on my family and friends, including my partner, who was also suffering.
Each day, I hoped to wake from this nightmare, wishing to return to a sense of normalcy. Yet, this was my new reality. The scar from surgery served as a painful reminder of that tragic day—a constant signal that I had lost my baby. We never discovered whether it was a girl or a boy; our hearts remain heavy, aching for the child we never got to meet. For support and information on similar experiences, I found useful resources like MakeAMom, which discusses home insemination kits, and March of Dimes, which offers insights on fertility treatments. Additionally, you can find valuable information on blended families welcoming new babies at Intracervical Insemination.
In summary, the emotional and physical impact of losing a pregnancy is profound and painful; finding support and understanding during this difficult time is crucial.