I was overjoyed and a bit overwhelmed to discover I was pregnant just 9 months after giving birth to my son. Almost immediately I started doing the math in my head…my oldest son would be just shy of 18 months old when our second child was expected. Gulp. Two kids under 18 months old, how was that going to work out? I’m barely qualified for one, let alone two!
I quieted my anxious mind and my type-A drive kicked in as I launched into full-on planning mode. Names, nursery ideas, car seat accommodations, the list goes on and on. I made an appointment with my OB- to be seen at 8 weeks pregnant on the dot. The appointment went well; the ultrasound showed a squishy, little gummy bear with a flickering heart. We went about sharing our news with our family. A pressure was released from me, I could breath, baby was fine.
A week later, at work, I noticed I was bleeding a bit. Nothing worrisome, but IT was there. I brushed it off, went about my work and tried not to let horrific scenarios clog my mind. Later that afternoon the bleeding hadn’t slowed and I started feeling cramping. As a nurse, 9 weeks pregnant, I knew the baby was either going to be fine or it wasn’t. There wasn’t anything I, my OB, or the internet could do or say that would make a difference. I did what I thought was best: drank water, rested, and mustered up whatever form of meditation and prayer I could.
Like it was yesterday, I remember waking up around 11 pm that night to an intense pain and contractions. Yes, contractions. I got up to go to the bathroom. Three strong contractions later, our baby was no more. I crawled back into bed, fully knowing what was to come in the morning. A hard conversation with my husband {I hadn’t woke him as he works long hours and often struggles to sleep} and a tough phone call to my OB. My suspicions were confirmed the following morning by my doctor.
Following my miscarriage, my thoughts were consumed with the notion that IF I ever got pregnant again, it would certainly end in a loss, disappointment, and heartache. I let these ideas eat away at my heart and overcome my emotions. I grew resentful, anger, and bitter. I full well knew this wasn’t the way to cope with my situation, but I allowed myself this time to wallow and grieve, and then I moved on. I put it behind me.
The negativity had to go; it was invading my mind and interrupting my happiness. To some extent, I’m sure it affected my marriage and relationship with my son. I threw myself back into my family and career. I worked overtime, put in 110% to my marriage, and gave into every sweet request a 10-month-old could ask for. Yes, yes, yes to everyone.
While delightfully consumed and distracted with extra bedtime stories, late night chats, and lengthy work projects, I was shocked to discover I was pregnant. The thought truly hadn’t crossed my mind; I almost wasn’t ready for it. I can remember standing in the bathroom holding positive pregnancy test after positive pregnancy test in disbelief. The thoughts came flooding back, my eyes filled with tears. What if it happens again, what if, what if, what if.
The next 8 months were the absolute longest of my life. I spent every second, minute, hour dreading going to the bathroom. I was terrorized by OB appointments and nauseated at the thought of ultrasounds. I wanted to avoid any insight into the possibility that something could be amiss in this pregnancy.
After countless weeks of worry and anxiety induced nausea, I made it. 40 weeks on the dot, our daughter was born and she was perfect. We named her Lucille, for no particular reason other than the fact that we liked the name. I am not big on name meanings and in no way was hers name planned around it’s meaning, but hers hits me in the gut every time it crosses my mind. Lucille means light. And, how fitting her name has come to be, as she is our Light after loss.
