I honestly don't know where to even start with this. I just know that I need to write. I need to get these emotions out of my head and heart and shove them off into the universe far, far away. The amount of devastation, hopelessness, desolation and heartache I feel in this moment is going to be near impossible to explain, but I feel in my heart and soul that I need to try.
A few days ago I posted a blog about a massive miscarriage scare we had in August with Kristin and our baby embie. The results of that situation ended up being what's called a subchorionic hematoma. All was well, and baby was thriving despite this minor complication. At around 11 weeks (close to 12) we had our first regular OB appointment (we had graduated from USF infertility to a regular practice). The baby had a strong, healthy heartbeat and was moving around like crazy. And the hematoma was small, shrinking and no where near impeding the embryotic sac. Everything looked absolutely perfect. We had a discussion with the OBGYN on what testing should be done for this pregnancy and, per the Doctor's recommendation, we decided that since all genetic testing was done on my embryo and I had been pregnant before and had my own testing done, we could proceed with another ultrasound in 4 weeks (November 4th) and forego any extra testing until it was time for our anatomy scan. I had booked an appointment with a high risk group in December (our 20 week mark) for anatomy scanning and a fetal echocardiogram to ensure baby girl was developing exactly how she was expected to. We had no added risk factors, no signs or reasons to worry, and we were doing everything right.
In the past 4 weeks Kristin had been doing beautifully. Her bump was just growing and growing and she was over her nausea phase and starting with her cravings. Things seemed exactly how they should. On Halloween night, at around 11pm, I was jolted awake by a phone call; it was Kristin's name flashing on the screen. My heart sank. I answered. Kristin apologized for waking me but she was having some brown discharge. Nothing major at all. I knew that this meant old blood. I told her to wait until the morning because this was most likely old blood from her hematoma and something the Doctor had told us could and likely would happen. I woke up around 4:45 that morning and immediately texted Kristin for an update. I knew I wouldn't get an answer that early, but I wanted her to see my text as soon as she woke up. Around 7:30, as I was beginning my first procedure at work, I received a reply. She had no bleeding overnight but when she showered a brown glob came out and then she had light pink streaking when she wiped. I began getting claustrophobic and panicked, sitting in a procedure room with the lights off as the Gastroenterologist performed a colonoscopy. I could hear the Doctor speaking to me but I couldn't make out his words. I couldn't focus to perform as I usually do. My phone was vibrating, my heart was racing. The nursing student in my room was asking questions. People were laughing. I could hear all of these things at once, but I couldn't process anything. The case finished and I brought my patient to our recovery unit. I walked back to my unit and grabbed my charge nurse. "Can I talk to you? In private.". She walked with me to an empty room and I lost it. I could feel the stress constricting my entire body. I reached for her and she embraced me. I didn't understand why I was so panicked. This situation was completely explainable by this hematoma that we were already aware of. But I couldn't shake this feeling of impending doom. I couldn't breath without thinking about it. In a fuzzy flurry my manager was coming into the room and the door was shut. I began blubbering through the explanation of what was going on. With their prompting and motherly concern, I paged the on call emergency OB nurse. The office wasn't open yet and I needed to speak to somebody. The nurse returned my page and was less than empathetic. Telling me that this wasn't an emergency but a known side effect of a hematoma and to call the office when it opened in 5 minutes. I obliged. I wanted to rip her apart. Tell her my entire story and how dare she act so condescending and annoyed with me after what I have gone through to get here. But I didn't. I had Kristin call to make the appointment. Kristin told them she had cramping (she didn't, she had dull soreness but we knew they wouldn't take us seriously if we mentioned the hematoma and some soreness). We had an appointment for 1215 for an ultrasound. My manager and charge nurse worked to get my call covered for Friday night into Saturday morning (it was my weekend of call) and arranged for me to leave right away. I felt better. More relaxed and more logical about the situation. I was being paranoid. My normal, high-strung self. I needed to go home and just take a moment to calm down. My mom met me at my house and we spoke about how it would be this hematoma and a silly situation to worry about. We spoke about how easy it is to get worked up because of how unique this story is. So much emotionally and financially invested; how could you not freak out about the smallest things? So I changed clothes and we headed back into Tampa for our ultrasound.
We met Kristin and her husband, Zac, outside of the office. We smiled and hugged and went in together. Zac was mentioning that when Taj gets home we really needed to plan an outing and hang out together. It was nothing but love and excitement to all be together waiting to check on this baby. We get called back. All four of us following the ultrasound tech, joking about the amount of people going back. She asks the usual questions and Kristin undresses. She starts the ultrasound. I remember my mom instantly saying, "There she is!". But my heart is ripping out of my chest. I am scanning every line of this black and white picture trying to see a heartbeat flutter across the screen. I say, "there's no heartbeat". I look over at the ultrasound tech and her hand is over her mouth as she stares at her screen. She asks Kristin when the bleeding started. I repeat again that there is no heartbeat. The tech stops, turns to me, puts her hand to her face and says "There's no heartbeat". I break down. I turn away. My mom is trying to touch and comfort me and I'm telling her to stop. Don't touch me. Nobody touch me. I am frantically calling Taj with no answer. I text him. I'm dying inside. Going through every scenario of how this can't be true. The tech tells me that the baby is only measuring 13 weeks. We are 17 weeks pregnant. How? She's gone. She's been gone. The tech then begins questioning me about why we didn't have an NT ultrasound at 12 weeks. WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME THIS? I did every fucking thing your doctor recommended I do. Why am I being questioned about what I did and didn't do? After what feels like hours we are pulled into a consult room to see a doctor. I recognize her. She took care of my pregnancy with Lena. She is crying and hugs me. I begin asking questions about scheduling and tests and ultrasounds and why. She begins to attempt to explain but starts every explanation with, "I'm not being defensive but...". Why is she explaining in that way? I am dying inside, looking for answers, and you are defending your office's actions to me. I am so confused. She then begins to talk to Kristin about a DNC or a forced miscarriage. I can't handle it. I just want to get home. I can't even be there for Kristin. I just have to get home. We leave together, Kristin and Zac have to go straight to St. Joseph's Women's Hospital to start the medications for a miscarriage. Her body never had symptoms or started the process on it's own. And a DNC this late in a pregnancy can be dangerous. We embrace and go our separate ways.
I am texting and calling anyone I can to let them know before I start getting questions. My mom is talking with my manager to get the rest of my call covered. I can't work like this. I am in shock still. I am so defeated, I don't know if defeat gets lower than this. I talk to Taj for hours. I feel so guilty that he is across the world, alone, and I have to tell him that I have failed, yet again. I make my mom stop on the way to my house to pick up beer. Just leave me alone and let me drink until I can't remember. My phone is blowing up. I post the news on Facebook because I know I can't handle telling people when they ask me how my baby and surrogate are doing, with excitement in their eyes. Just rip the band-aid off. Let them know now so it doesn't hurt worse later. I get a text from one of my best friends, Jes, "Where are you?". I'm home. 5 minutes later she is at my door. My phone is still going off. I can't answer. I can't talk. I just need people with me. I don't need questions or condolences. I need human touch and presence.
The past week of preparing my nursery. Buying outfits. Having a thought out name already. Looking at Halloween costumes and dreaming of next year with my rainbow baby girl. All shattered in a second. Again. Another crushing, destructive blow. I had a feeling in my heart that this beautiful little girl was it. She was meant to be, because she was a fighter. She made it, first try. I had spent years going to the darkest corners of the Earth and traveling back to the lightest. I catered to my mental and physical health, doing what I never thought I could. I fought. I fought to be happy despite all of the reasons not to. I was at peace and I knew that this was what was meant to be. Now, I know nothing. I know that you can fight as hard as you are able and still end up on the bottom.
I spent so much of my time soul searching and pushing myself to limits most people will never see. I was so proud. Here was my prize. I am unstoppable. A success story amidst tragedy and heartache. And it all came crashing back down around me. As if I had somehow taped up a curtain of happiness and my tape lost its stickiness and gave way to the weight of the curtains. My one girl embryo, my fighter, had left this world weeks ago.
To be able to explain what this is like is difficult. Infertility is not uncommon. Child loss is not uncommon. I am no different or more deserving of grief than the next person dealing with these issues. I am in a unique situation and that is what adds to the desolation of what I continue to face. So many questions, so many new choices to be made and so little fight left. It's real, you know, that feeling people speak of where nothing will ever get better so why even get back up anymore. It's real, and it's the worst feeling in the world.
As for my baby, her name is Liora Jeanne Copeland. Liora means 'God's gift of light to me'. And yet, her light was snubbed out before it even got to shine.