My journey to “complete” my family felt a lot like whiplash. When my husband and I decided to try to have our first baby, everything—and I mean everything—went exactly how it should. I got pregnant right away and had no complications, besides placenta previa that ended up resolving itself. (At the time I thought this was awful, which feels crazy in retrospect.) The birth of my first daughter was as close to perfect as it could have been. My husband and I knew we wanted to have at least one more child. We knew how easy it was with our first, so we just thought we would wait to try until the time was right. Our firstborn was almost 18 months, and we both were like, “Now is the time!” That first month where I did not see two pink lines was frustrating, but nothing could have prepared me for what was to come.
We tried for months and months to get pregnant. I was so confused by how it could be so easy and then so hard. The concept of secondary infertility was actually not new to me. My mom went through it and suffered greatly. Similar to me, she had my older brother with no issues, and then really struggled to have another baby. After 10 years and with the help of IVF, my twin sister and I were born. Somehow, I was blissfully unaware that this could also happen to me.
I fell into the rabbit hole that is all things desperately trying-to-conceive, which many women know can be all-consuming. Every month matters. Every negative test is devastating. The age gap for my daughter and her future sibling kept getting wider. About nine months into the process, I talked to my OB-GYN and they decided it was time to intervene, suggesting I do a “Day 21” progesterone blood test, which checks to see if you are ovulating. I was vacationing in the Outer Banks with my family and the closest lab was five hours away. I took the trip because waiting another month was not an option. The test revealed that I was not ovulating, and hearing this was such a relief! A simple medication would help me, and then I would get pregnant. It worked right away. I got pregnant on the first try. We told family and friends and anyone who would listen that I was finally pregnant again. My husband and I both got to hear the heartbeat at the eight-week scan, and everything looked perfect. We hung the ultrasound prints on the refrigerator. My daughter would go up to them and give the printouts a kiss.
I went alone for my 12-week scan. Why would we need to find childcare for our daughter when everything was already fine? I remember sipping coffee in traffic on the drive there, listening to my favorite music. Once I arrived and was on the table, everything felt like it went in slow motion. It took maybe 30 seconds for the ultrasound tech to say, “I’m going to go get the doctor.” I felt my soul leave my body—I knew it. I knew it, but I had to hear the doctor say it: “There is no heartbeat.” On the screen, I could see my baby seemingly asleep. I remember crying uncontrollably, the two women walking me out of a back door instead of the lobby, and me putting one Ugg boot in front of the other to get to my car. I had what is called a missed miscarriage. My baby silently died and showed me zero symptoms, which is why this was so shocking. He was a boy, and I will always miss him. This was more devastating than any negative pregnancy test, and by far the most devastating thing that had ever happened to me.
Parenting my sweet daughter during this time was so dark. I was not present. She saw me cry even when I tried to hide it. Sometimes I could not hide it. I was not okay. There were so many days that she and I just laid on the couch watching TV, hugging each other, and taking naps. Although she knew there had been a baby, we chose to not discuss this with her. She never asked questions, and we just pretended it was business as usual. At the time, she was my number one priority, so I did my best to find the strength to move forward. It took about three months for me to get my menstrual cycle back. With the help of medication again, I was pregnant a few months after my miscarriage. Even though there was a 7 percent chance I could conceive twins on this medication, I wasn’t even thinking about it, since I took that same medication to conceive my baby boy.
I had PTSD from my old practice, so we switched to a new OB-GYN. My husband and I both agreed I would never go to another appointment or scan alone again. Knowing that they could very well just say, “Your baby is dead!” I went into our first scan with the lowest expectations, so that the floor would not fall out from under my feet again. This particular ultrasound tech was very quiet. I stayed quiet, too, holding my breath. Then she types on the screen “A.” I said, “NO, YOU ARE KIDDING.” She nodded, and then typed a “B” on the screen. I was already crying at this point, and my husband had no idea what was going on, so I told him, “There’s two of them.” I remember feeling so much adrenaline I could hardly sit still. What do you mean I have to worry about TWO of them dying? My husband looked me directly in the eyes and calmly said, “We are going to be fine.” His sense of peace was exactly what I needed at that moment. You might remember that I am a twin, and my husband is a twin, too. We agreed that this was just meant to be. If anyone can handle twins, it’s us.
Pregnancy after loss is something only those who have lived it can understand. Every appointment, scan, second of the day—you wonder if the worst has happened again. I paid so much out of pocket for weekly ultrasounds at a boutique just to know if they were alive. The 12-week scan was notably the hardest for us. I told the tech to tell us right away if both were alive. She played us two heartbeats, and that feeling of relief is something I’ll never forget. Once I felt movement, I always debated whether I was feeling one or both of them. I knew I would not be okay until they were in my arms. Parenting during pregnancy after loss is hard, too. I was filled with worry, and found it difficult to be present. I would feel anxious every time my daughter would talk about her new brother and sister on the way.
I ended up going into labor at 35 weeks and 6 days. They were born via [scheduled] C-section since that was the safest delivery route according to my doctor. Baby B was fully breech. When I say they were rushed to the NICU, I mean they were rushed to the NICU. I did not get to hold them. I barely even got to see them. I just remember my husband going in a triangle to me, Baby A, then Baby B. I heard crying. Their lungs needed some help from being born early, but I was assured they would be okay. I went to the PACU to recover from surgery, and found myself alone again since my husband had gone to the NICU. This was a full-circle moment. I was sad and scared, just like when I was told my baby had no heartbeat. I told myself I had two babies upstairs getting breathing help and their dad was with them. I was not prepared for how long it took for me to see them. They were born at 5:05 p.m. and 5:07 p.m., respectively. I first got to see them at 2:55 a.m. They were in the NICU for two weeks before we got to take them home. I have sympathy for that version of myself, who had to wait so long to hold my babies after everything I went through. But all I could feel in those moments was relief that they were finally here.
As I sit here now with my precious and healthy three children, I feel guilt because my secondary infertility story was not as “long” as it could have been. Plus, I already had a daughter to begin with. But I do look at every day through the lens of the turbulent journey it took to get us all here—how a tale of two very different ultrasound screens turned into a thriving family that finally feels complete.
