Updated: Sep. 6, 2015
Originally Published: Sep. 6, 2015
The first time I discovered I was pregnant, I had just returned home from work to our cozy apartment. As I was swapping my work attire for something more relaxed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My chest looked different—much fuller.
Could it be? Was I really pregnant on the very first month of trying? Despite my vow to wait at least a week before taking a test, curiosity got the better of me. I dashed to the nearest drug store and picked up a pregnancy test.
When two lines appeared instantly, I was in disbelief. Shouldn’t I have waited for Matt to come home so we could share this moment together? What if I had done the test wrong? Is it truly possible that I was having a baby?
I called the helpline on the box, and when the friendly voice confirmed that it’s nearly impossible to mess it up and get a positive result, I squealed with excitement. I was over the moon!
Matt was out of town, returning from a business trip in a couple of hours. The year was 1996, and we didn’t have cell phones. So I spent those two hours alone, reveling in the knowledge that we were about to become parents. When I heard the key in the lock, I touched my belly and whispered, “Daddy’s home.”
Our joy turned to heartbreak at the ten-week ultrasound, where we saw our little one but no heartbeat. I carefully packed away congratulatory cards and a letter from our insurance company about my preregistration at the hospital, placing them in a box in our closet. That was November 1996.
I clung to stories of women who had suffered miscarriages but went on to have healthy babies. A few months later, my hopes soared when I again saw two lines on the pregnancy test. This time, Matt and I decided to keep it our little secret until we were further along.
But two weeks later, we were once again crying on our bed. I was beginning to feel like my dream of motherhood was slipping away. I found comfort in the tales of women who had experienced two miscarriages and still built beautiful families. I also reached out to support groups for women who had faced similar losses. I needed reassurance that I would be okay and that baby joy was still within reach.
Although my doctor suggested seeing a specialist, we chose to remain with our current practice. I was convinced I wouldn’t be one of “those” unfortunate women. This was just a bump in the road. Our baby would come. Fast forward to February 1997, and summer arrived in New York. Matt and I were overjoyed to see yet another positive pregnancy test. We were planning to move out of the city into a house, even painting the spare room baby blue in anticipation of our arrival.
But that pregnancy ended in miscarriage, too. I was now categorized as a “habitual aborter” by the medical community. Three strikes, and I was out. My OB-GYN referred me to a specialist, and by August 1997, I was grasping for hope.
With each passing day, I sought out stories of women who had experienced multiple losses. It was becoming increasingly challenging, and the weight of it all was heavy. Just a few days before Christmas, I received a call from my fertility specialist. After extensive genetic testing and various procedures, I was finally pregnant again! But the nurse warned that my hormone levels weren’t quite where they should be, and I needed to come in after the holidays for more tests.
After four losses in just 13 months, I was devastated.
A few weeks later, my mom called with a tale of her friend’s daughter, who had finally achieved pregnancy after years of infertility and a second-trimester loss. “Isn’t that wonderful, Jamie?” she asked.
“It’s wonderful for her,” I replied flatly.
“Doesn’t it give you hope? It shows it can happen for you too!”
My voice was devoid of enthusiasm as I pleaded with her to stop sharing stories of others getting their happy endings. I just couldn’t take it anymore.
I knew she meant well, and I appreciated her concern. But it was hard to bear. My sisters and friends struggled to find the right words, and I became less fun to be around, breaking into tears over the smallest things. Matt was the only one who truly understood the depth of my pain. I cherished the comfort of his arm around me whenever we passed a pregnant woman or a baby in a stroller. Yet, guilt gnawed at me for not being able to give him a child.
We decided to try one more round of medical intervention before calling it quits. I embarked on a 30-day prayer vigil. While I had always considered myself more spiritual than religious, desperation drove me to seek divine guidance. Each day, I would stop at a church near my office and sit in a pew, asking for direction. At the end of those 30 days, I wasn’t pregnant, but I felt a newfound sense of peace.
I began to be open to stories of couples who chose alternative paths to parenthood. Matt and I started exploring the idea of adoption and embraced the life we had. I had changed. The losses still hurt, but I was starting to feel joy again.
Then, to my utter shock, I discovered I was pregnant for the fifth time. Eight months later, I finally held a baby in my arms. It was two years and one month after my first miscarriage. The happy ending that once felt so far away had arrived, and it was sweeter than I ever could have dreamed.
This article was originally published on Sep. 6, 2015.
For more insights into pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource and learn about how you can take control of your journey at Home Insemination Kit. And for those looking for quality products, check out Make a Mom for their reliable insemination kits.
Summary:
The journey through recurrent miscarriage can be heart-wrenching and filled with moments of despair and hope. Jamie Collins shares her personal story of loss, resilience, and the eventual joy of motherhood after enduring multiple miscarriages. Through her experiences, she highlights the importance of support, the challenges faced during the journey, and the unexpected paths to happiness that can emerge.