As I prepare to put my legs up in those fancy stirrups for yet another test that might confirm my ongoing struggle with infertility, the doctor—who I don’t typically see—turns to me and says, “So, you’ve experienced a couple of losses, right?”
I respond, “Well, I had a chemical pregnancy back in May, and our first IVF didn’t take.”
He replies, “Okay, so yes, one loss. You’ve had a loss.” Ouch. The term “loss” hit me hard. I hadn’t really viewed it that way until he voiced it. In my mind, I’d just had a chemical pregnancy. While that’s technically accurate, I hadn’t fully connected it to the reality of losing a pregnancy—a miscarriage, to be precise. It was an early miscarriage.
Maybe it was the clinical term “chemical pregnancy” that made my feelings seem less valid. Perhaps I felt like I couldn’t express just how deeply I was hurting over losing what would have been our first child. But as I reflected on his words, I realized he was right. That tiny little embryo, just 4 weeks and 2 days old, made me a mom.
After I found out our second IVF attempt worked, I found myself obsessing over what I should eat, how often I should be up and about, and whether I was getting enough rest. I couldn’t help but think about the little one growing inside me. I even started to plan how to manage work if I delivered in January, even though a part of me knew the outcome was uncertain—that the baby might not stay.
My hCG beta levels were low, and I was bracing for the possibility that everything could come crashing down by Tuesday. It was the Friday before Mother’s Day, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I would still be considered a mom on that special day. A few friends who knew about the pregnancy wished me “Happy Mother’s Day.” My husband gifted me a plant to celebrate my motherhood, if only for a moment.
I found myself devouring pickles like they were going out of style. I had some symptoms—though they were subtle at just 4 weeks. Whether they were side effects from the progesterone shots we IVF patients endure or genuine pregnancy signs, they felt very real at the time.
In those precious days between that Friday and Tuesday, I felt pregnant. There were moments when I began to embrace the idea of being a mom. Yet, pregnancy is a tricky business; something can mean everything, or it can mean nothing at all. Even when I experienced some light bleeding that weekend, sitting with my husband and seeing the tears in his eyes, I still held onto hope that I would remain a mom.
After my latest test, I sat in my car and sobbed uncontrollably. The tears wouldn’t stop. Maybe it was the pain from the procedure, or perhaps it was the realization that I had to confront my pregnancy loss. I held onto hope for those four days between blood tests. In fact, I had been carrying that embryo since day two of conception. The beauty of IVF is that you can see your baby at just 2 days old.
That was enough for me to mourn the little one that was—and the one that could have been. Hearing the doctor say “loss” stung, but it also served as a poignant reminder that I was a mom, even if just for a fleeting moment.
I was a mom. You are a mom.
For more insights on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource from the CDC. And if you’re considering a fertility journey, this guide on couples’ fertility can be really helpful.
Summary:
In a heartfelt reflection, Jenna Hartman shares her emotional journey through infertility and pregnancy loss, illustrating the complexities of motherhood even in brief moments. The experience of undergoing IVF and coping with the term “loss” resonates deeply as she navigates hope amidst uncertainty.