That first year of married life whizzed by, and before we knew it, the topic of preparing to start a family was upon us. I was 39 years old at the time, and my husband was just a couple of years older. But I thought nothing of any issues we might encounter with fertility. I assumed that when I was ready to “do it,” it would happen. Needless to say, all the chatter over the past year had made me more than just a little anxious about the whole thing. Especially since this would be my first child — I really had no idea what I was in for. And now with the official wedding-anniversary countdown clock ticking to the one-year mark, and my own biological clock clanging for all to hear, my nerves were more than a bit rattled. Long story short: we kicked off this journey to parenthood one spring day in April, and by Memorial Day I was pregnant. Au naturel! My son was born nine months later. I fell madly in love with my new baby! And it must be true what they say about “pregnancy amnesia” — that once you have a baby, you forget all the rough patches that you may have experienced while trying to make the baby — and all the nutty things that happen to your body during the gestation period. With the first look at my son’s sweet face, I immediately wanted another baby! I readily forgot about all the back aches and morning sickness and heartburn. I was ready to do it all over again. My husband and I didn’t talk much about it when it happened, and I didn’t fret. I was aware that it was a fairly common thing. I didn’t really expect that getting pregnant again would be that easy. (Okay, maybe I actually did think it would be that easy.) A couple of months passed, and lo and behold, with no medical intervention, I was pregnant again! But again, less than six weeks later, a visit to the OB confirmed that things were not progressing as they should. Soon after the doctor visit, evidence of another lost attempt washed away from my body, unassisted. Miscarriage #2, come and gone. I began to wonder if the birth of my son had rendered my womb unable to hold on to a new little miracle. In fact, after watching my doctor fumble through the delivery during our son’s birth, my husband assigned her the nickname “Meat Hooks McGee.” My delivery was nearly four hours long, and by the time my doctor was finally able to maneuver my son from the birth canal, she ripped the umbilical cord from the placenta, leaving much of the remaining “material” still inside me. Despite her efforts to remove it (she numbed me up and was up to her elbow inside me trying to get it all out), the effort was ineffective. Two weeks later, I was in for a D&C (dilation and curettage), the surgical procedure to scrape debris from the uterine wall. As my son neared 2-1/2 years old, I was pregnant once again. I remember this one well, because right about this time my husband’s niece was getting married. It was a big family affair, and though I was feeling near certain that this time was for real, I was committed to keeping this pregnancy, like all the failed attempts before, a total secret. My husband and I never discussed the matter with anyone else. (OK, I did tell my mom. I tell my mom everything. But she’s a vault! She kept it just between us.) I celebrated that wedding in a lovely floor-length blue dress. I was feeling the pregnancy and hoping that this time it would “take.” Sadly, before the evening of celebration was over, I began to feel terribly sick. Before the newly wedded couple even got to the cake-cutting ceremony, I could feel my body burning up with fever, working to expel another lost attempt. Surrounded by hundreds of family members, I dutifully smiled for snapping cameras, posing for family photos and holding my head high for the next couple of hours while inside, my body crumbled. A few months passed. And once again, another missed period. Another visit to the OB was on my calendar — but this time, it would be to a new OB. I was hoping that a new doctor might offer some useful guidance, options, information about why this was all happening and maybe even a bit of reassurance that whatever problems we were facing could possibly be resolved. The pregnancy was confirmed, and I was beginning to feel more positive about it. But just a little over a month later, this fourth pregnancy deteriorated. I was heartbroken. I had many more visits to the doc. He didn’t offer any explanation for our situation. In fact, he seemed almost exclusively interested in the process of becoming pregnant, a step that presents the majority of issues for couples. My problem wasn’t getting pregnant, just everything after. My son was about to turn 3 years old — and another family wedding was on our calendar. So of course, I was pretty confident that I was going to be pregnant again, given my past record. It was starting to feel like the movie Groundhog Day. Nature was right on time, once again. Only this time, I was a bit more than just “a little” pregnant. There was a solid heartbeat! And I was nauseous as heck. This time it was for real! (But I still kept it a secret. I wanted to be sure it was in fact “for real” before spilling the news to everyone.) This pregnancy moved along, easily breaking the sustainability records of the four previous attempts. Before long, my husband’s nephew’s wedding was upon us. I attended that affair in a sexy near-backless floor-length gown. I tabled my vanity regarding my visible “baby bump,” again keeping the secret that I was pregnant, and wore my slightly puffy tummy with confidence. The wedding was wonderful! I felt strong and enjoyed the event, staying late into the evening. Success, at last! Foolishly, I thought if I could get through the milestone of this second special occasion with flying colors, then I would be “off to the races,” and it was on! I was wrong. It was off. Now I have another set of wedding pictures from a family affair that remind me, with my visible tummy pooch, of another ill-fated pregnancy. At the urging of my mom, fearing for my health and well-being, I agreed to officially disband all future plans for conception after miscarriage #5. By this time, my desire for another child was steadily dissipating with the growing responsibilities of keeping up with our active toddler and working full time. The moment she told me, I no longer felt like a total freak. Hearing that I wasn’t the only woman going through this somehow helped me get through it. Add to that, my own fears and worries about bringing another child into our busy lives had me second-guessing all along. So, I am sharing this deeply personal story (and until now, a well-kept secret) in the hopes that it may bring some comfort to someone else going through this experience as well, regardless of the outcome. There is nothing “wrong” with you. And if you’re going through something similar right now, just know it’s always easier to look back on events and understand their course and outcomes with hindsight. If we had been successful, I’m sure we could have managed a growing family. But now, just two years after the unexpected and untimely passing my husband at just 53 years old, I can hardly imagine that another child was meant for us. In my heart, I believe that if it was meant to be — it would have. Learning that lesson, for me, has helped me to carry on. Oh, and wondering about my friend who shared her experience of also suffering serial-miscarriages? Well, three years later, she delivered her second child. And two years after that, they were surprised to learn that they would be adding baby three to the family as well!
