When I shared the arrival of my youngest child on social media, a friend I hadn’t seen in weeks reached out, utterly astonished. She had no idea I was pregnant.
I hadn’t gone out of my way to conceal it, but I also hadn’t brought it up. During our last gathering, I wore loose shorts and a T-shirt, lying on my back due to discomfort. I assumed my baby bump would be noticeable, especially in that position.
However, I was reluctant to discuss my pregnancy. Announcing it would draw attention, and I was just trying to cope. I had shared my previous pregnancies at the typical twelve-week mark, but this time felt entirely different.
I was measuring small—eight weeks behind, to be precise. During a routine prenatal check, my urine protein levels raised concerns, leading to a diagnosis of preeclampsia. Sonograms revealed my baby was growth-restricted (IUGR) and that my amniotic fluid levels were low. I was terrified, convinced I was carrying a fragile child. While some might label my fears as exaggerated, my obstetrician understood my anxiety.
Just three months before conceiving this baby, I had delivered a daughter but left the hospital without her. The weight of that loss was immeasurable.
I had announced my pregnancy at twelve weeks previously, thinking that was the norm. Everything appeared perfect until sudden complications led to a harrowing experience of sepsis and ultimately, the loss of my baby.
Experiencing such a public loss can be isolating. Society has not fully grasped how to support those who have endured such grief; the stigma surrounding it persists. A little over a week after my loss, I attended a family wedding and noticed people avoided making eye contact. A few offered their condolences, but it felt like a solitary burden I had to carry.
In loss support circles, we discuss the concept of secondary losses and the additional traumas that arise from how others react—or don’t react—to our grief. Our loss wasn’t formally acknowledged; there was no funeral. I knew that if I became pregnant again, I would need the power to share the news at my own pace.
When I found out I was pregnant again, I wasn’t ready to share the news in the first trimester. As the second trimester passed with little acknowledgment, I felt pressured by some to announce it, but I chose to keep many in the dark.
By the time I reached the third trimester, complications arose: my baby continued to measure small, and I dealt with pre-eclampsia. I had frequent clinic visits and even a terrifying trip to Labor and Delivery after I hadn’t felt movement for over an hour. My heart was bracing for grief, not joy. Despite my intention to announce during this phase, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Measuring significantly smaller than expected helped me keep the pregnancy under wraps. The image above was taken the day before my induction at 37 weeks. My eldest child was enthusiastic about welcoming a living sibling, and I tried to hold onto that hope.
Spoiler alert: we welcomed a healthy baby boy in July 2018, exactly eleven months after my daughter was born. He has truly become the light of our lives.
For more insights on navigating pregnancy and loss, check out our other blog post here. Additionally, for authoritative information, visit this resource on pregnancy and here for valuable information on the topic.
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- What to do after a miscarriage?
- Signs of IUGR in pregnancy
- Managing preeclampsia during pregnancy
- How to cope with pregnancy loss
- Support for grieving parents
In summary, my journey through pregnancy was fraught with fear and uncertainty, shaped by past loss. Keeping my pregnancy a secret until the end was a personal choice driven by the need for control over my experience and the emotional toll of previous heartbreak.