This is the second part of Ann’s story of pregnancy loss.
I recommend starting with the first part which is in yesterday’s post.
This story has some potentially triggering content. Please turn on the self-kindness and check in with yourself. It may be that now is not the time for you to read a story of pregnancy loss. In that case, please give yourself permission to skip this for now and come back at another time when you are not so tender.
Passing the mic to Ann:
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Ann plans and God laughs.
No? You learned it differently? Well, maybe. But that seems to be the way that adage plays out in my life.
I always wanted two children. I married James knowing he wanted four. But, after Sarit was born I kept finding myself LOOKing for someone else. A third child. It would be risky, I knew, having a third kid. I had two hips and could carry them at the same time when I walked short distances. When it was time to go somewhere I would say “Girls! Let’s go!” Or, “Ladies! Time to leave!” How would I get three children out the door? Especially if one was a BOY?
But I decided. I planned. I wanted another.
I have a pretty sensitive stomach so when I went to the doctor for stomach pains, I thought we’d agree that I had food poisoning, I’d get a prescription for medication—and ginger ale—and that would be that.
“Mmmm. Do you know when your last period was? I think we should give you a blood test.” “Um, OK.”
Next week
“Hi. I was wondering if the results of my, um, test were in?” HIPPA privacy regulations and all. One must be discreet.
“Yes. They’re positive.”
“Positive?”
“Yeah. One week.”
“One week?! Aaand that’s based on HCG, not LMP, right?” Two can play at this “privacy” game.
“Right.”
I went to my OB-GYN when I figured I was about six weeks pregnant and we scheduled the first round of now-standard prenatal testing. One day a few weeks later, at the end of November, I dropped Gavri off at school, strapped Sarit into the stroller, and sang to her from the pages of her nursery rhyme book as I lay on the table for my routine ultrasound: “Hush little baby, don’t say a w—“
“I’m going to get the doctor.” The sonographer walks out of the room.
“OK…” That’s normal. Isn’t it?
She walks back in. With a doctor. Not mine.
Click. Swish. Click. Swish. Click. Swish. Gagoom. Gagoom. Gagoom. Gagoom. Gagoom. Click.
“Normally, at this point, we would see the baby’s brain fully developed. This HOLE wouldn’t be here. It might be nothing. Come back in a month to check. In the meantime, you can go across the hall for the blood-work.”
A month?
MY doctor called the next day. “It might really be nothing, Ann. But you don’t have to wait a month. You can come in next week.”
Next week.
I started to pray. Out loud, in English, I asked God to heal the baby. I started singing. Because there’s a teaching that when we’re singing, it’s like we’re praying twice. I sang running errands. I sang washing dishes. I sang walking Gavri to school. “Mommy, are you praying?”
Then I thought I was being impractical so I just asked for the strength to deal with whatever came next. Then I decided I was allowed to be selfish. I wanted a perfect child. So after asking God for everything else, I finally asked for a miscarriage. What kind of a mother asks God to take her baby?
My doctor called. The blood tests had come back. There was a four out of five chance that the baby I was carrying had a chromosomal abnormality: Trisomy 13 or Trisomy 18. “Either way it’s bad. They’re very bad. Not compatible with life. Call back tomorrow and we’ll schedule you for a meeting with a genetic counselor.”
So I did. And we did. And we learned that there was about a 90% chance that I would miscarry. Some time before the end of the pregnancy. Some time. And that abortion was an option. Abortion. But they recommended a follow-up test for further information first. So I could come on Friday. And then I could schedule an abortion.
James wanted to meet with the rabbi. We shouldn’t make these decisions on our own, without rabbinic counsel. But I had already decided: I couldn’t be pregnant with this baby. I couldn’t wear maternity clothes and have people ask when I was due. Have the girls ask when the “new baby” is coming. “Oh, actually,” I would say, patting my belly, “this baby’s probably going to die. We just have to wait and find out when!” I would smile cheerfully, shrug my shoulders, and move on.
“It’s the mother’s decision,” the rabbi told us. “Not only do you have to support it, James, but you have to tell Ann that you support whatever choice she makes.”
I cried myself to sleep that night.
After the longest week in my life, at 12 weeks and five days of pregnancy, I woke up bleeding. I called my doctor, giddy. She said I had to wait. There was no reason for me to come to the hospital right away. So I took Gavri to school. I volunteered at the book fair. I emailed lesson plans to my principal, saying I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it in. I called a friend to watch the girls, telling her I was miscarrying and on my way to the doctor.
I took the bus. And the subway. I couldn’t DRIVE. I was BLEEDING. I might pass out behind the wheel of the car. I told James I would call him when I was on my way into surgery and he could meet me there. I was sure I’d need surgery. This had happened before.
(Hey, this is Yael, interrupting Ann’s flow to let you know that the next part is the most triggering part of this post. A deep breath would be a good idea. or just skip to the part where the text is black again if you don’t want to read the graphic part.)
By the time I made it to my doctor’s office, it was all I could do to keep from squatting in the waiting room, the cramping was so intense. Then the nurse called me in. As I started to sit, she said, “You know what? The doctor’s probably going to want to do an exam. Why don’t you go change?”
So I did.
Then it happened.
And I looked.
And I saw it.
And I screamed.
And no one came.
I sat on the exam table. The doctor knocked and entered. She wasn’t MY doctor. Tears welled up in my eyes and I said, “I think you have to check the toilet. I think I just passed a mass.”
And she did.
And I had.
“That looks like your fetus.” I know. I saw it. At the bottom of the toilet. It was the size of my thumb. It had hands and a face…
“I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave?” She walked towards me. The tears spilled out. The words joined them.
“No! Please. Don’t leave me alone…I’m sorry…I have two little girls…What a horrible thing to happen to a baby…”
Years later I sit in a room full of women training with me to become foster moms. I had to become a foster mom. It was kind of my only option. I had a little boy. A two-year-old. “Rami.” He had just weaned and I knew I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t go through another pregnancy waiting for the next doctor’s appointment, waiting to hear the heartbeat, waiting to see the FULLY DEVELOPED BRAIN. I couldn’t do it. But James wants four kids. And I need desperately to hold babies. To know that I’m keeping even one baby from crying.
The social workers are explaining that some women simply CAN’T parent their children. The natural response is “TSK. But every mom WANTS their baby. Every mom SHOULD want their baby.” But I know better. I slink down in my seat. I’m afraid they’ll see me. And they’ll know. I was that monster. I was that “girl.” I was that MOM. Who didn’t want her baby.
But I did.
I did.
I just.
I wanted.
Perfect.
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Thank you Ann for sharing your tender story with us.
I know reading it helped me understand and love you more.
If Ann’s story touched you in any way, we’d love to hear from you. Please talk to us in the comments below.
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Here in Ithaca, NY, there is a much needed perinatal loss support group that meets monthly.
I had a small part in getting it started. They have a new website: http://ithacaperinatallosssupport.com/
This group is working with the Ithaca Children’s Garden to build a special bulb labyrinth where families can mourn young lives not lived while immersed in the beauty of flowers. This garden needs our support in order to bloom. Please visit this page is you are able to contribute or participate in its creation:
http://www.ithacachildrensgarden.org/bulb-labyrinth.html
Please help us bring the Mama's Comfort Camp to more mothers by sharing this post via:
This story is beyond simple comments. But I know you are looking for people to do so. I cant imagine what this is like to go through. All I can say is that Im so glad both of your stories end with such hope for the future and gratitude for what you have. You both are such holy people with so much to share and give.
Props for being the first rabbi to share.
I appreciate your sharing, your coming here, and I hope we’re both seeing what a service you’re doing by linking to the blog. Thanks!
So beautiful and moving, I was in tears. Thanks for sharing.
Oh, thanks, Arielle. I appreciate the kind words.
Thank you so much for sharing your story. We don’t know each other but we have a mutual friend on facebook who commented on your link and it showed up on my newsfeed. I had two first trimester miscarriages before my son was born. I personally haven’t yet felt ready to share my story publicly (although I’ve shared it privately with close friends), so I understand too well how hard it can be to share and I just want you to know how much I appreciate your sharing of your emotions. So many women/couples go through this and feel so alone in their pain, but unfortunately it is so common… Thank you for finding the courage and the space to do this and I hope some day I find the same courage and the right space to share – I think you are helping others so much!
Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t know what kind of internal fortitude it took for you to come here. But your doing so moves me to tears. I will admit to being concerned that the whole piece was self-serving. I really appreciate your generosity of spirit. Thank you so much.
I’m in a coffee shop so I’m trying very hard to keep it together. I agree that you are THAT mother– the mother that loves her children to the ends of the Earth, the mother that is the best mother she can be, the mother with a good heart and a kind spirit, and so brave! ((hugs))
Nancy recently posted..Seasons.
Blaaaaah….ugly cry. I so need that as my mantra, Nancy. Thank you.
I am moved to tears by the sadness, the beauty, the hope and your eloquence. And inspired by your fostering. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you so much, Maida. I am touched specifically by your words. Thank you for choosing them.
Note to self: do NOT allow the car battery to die while feeding a six-day-old in 12 degree weather so that after the battery’s been replaced, you come back to all this…THIS. You really all deserve an individual response…but my communal thanks for coming here and sharing your thoughts.
Ann-
your words are honest, heartfelt and meaningful….
thank you for sharing and by sharing supporting.
you do many beautiful things that are tikun olam (repairing the world), sharing your story among them.
we have come a far way since knowing each other at UMD, glad FB allows us to stay in touch
leslie
Thanks, Leslie. I am so touched by how many women ARE coming forward and thanking them for making them feel “not so alone.” And, gosh, you’re not joking…we HAVE come a long way.
Hi Ann.
I can relate with both of your stories. While my first miscarriage was a not developed blip that turned into a quick dnc, my second was much more of a scare. I too was in the position of seeing a deformed fetus at my 9wk checkup, and needing to wait it out until 13 weeks (when the heartbeat stopped by itself) with all sorts of horrible mommy thoughts. I too wanted a perfect child, and found myself praying for a month that I not be put in the situation of needing to actually be the one to make the decision, and hashem did answer my prayers. I am now due with #6, but if I said that miss#2 didn’t change pregnancy for me forever….I would be lying. Thanks for sharing your story.
Wow, yes. Such similarities. And amazing, isn’t it, how life goes on, yet we’re changed forever. Thanks for sharing, Devora.
Ann- I too lost a baby by miscarriage and passed the child in a toilet. It horrified me also. I was alone at the time, no one was around the father had left me and I had no idea what to do. I never ended up having children and actually refused to marry a man who wanted kids, because I was afraid. Thanks for sharing.
Wow, Cara. The bathroom situation (probably obviously) still haunts me. My husband had to shut the t.v. off at 2:30 that morning and carry me to bed; I didn’t want to close my eyes and see “it” again. And it’s scary. It’s life and it’s just. Scary.
Ann, this is a really well-written, moving piece. I don’t (and may never) have the instinct or desire to be a mommy, so I don’t have successful or unsuccessful pregnancies to draw from. However, I can imagine the horror of living through something like this, and I applaud you for being honest. Honest with your readers, and more importantly, honest with yourself. It takes a big person to admit feelings that may not be the socially popular ones, and it takes a lot of guts to write about something so incredibly personal. I am proud of you!
Thanks, Jen. The feelings are still pretty painful. Embarrassing almost. I appreciate your words. They make this part of the process easier.
A powerful story, written with honesty and grace and courage, especially with courage. I’m proud to know you, Ann.
Thank you so much. It is so wonderful to have reconnected. I am so appreciative of your words. It may not be Beowulf, but I did work hard on it.
Ann,
Such courage it took you to be honest about something so difficult. Amazing. Im sorry for the pain you felt. Thanks for sharing your most private thoughts and experiences. I can’t even imagine the pain. You amaze me.
And being a foster mom. Thanks from all the other adoptive parents for the great care you give the babies.
Abbie
Oh, Abbie, thank you so much. Those words always touch me so deeply. It is such a gift to be able to snuggle those cutie pies for even a few days or weeks. And a remarkable pleasure to place them in their parents’ arms for the first time.
Ann, usually I’m on the other (doctor) side of these things… I truly appreciate your story and how it gives light for other women going through childbearing issues. Thank you for helping to heal this bit of the world. I have only respect, and love, for your feelings and experience. Thank g-d you are you!
Libbat
Libbat, thank you for sharing your perspective. I apologized to the doctors when it was all done. “What are you apologizing for? Please don’t do that…” “I don’t know why you do what you do and I don’t know what you THOUGHT would happen this morning when you got out of bed. But I can’t imagine you envisioned yourself…”
Is it odd to call yourself a “monster” YES. but you are not that girl. You are the Woman who is so giving that other infants can thrive by you helping out.
These are your 4th child, and 5th and 6th etc. Maybe you will not raise them, but I think this is the path G-d has laid out for you, and for all those other wonderful souls you are taking into your heart.
Congrats on a very difficult, but wonderfully written life story.
Miki C.
(PS: Everyone mother wants perfect.)
Ann,
You are an amazing woman. And your feelings are so real, and true, and, I believe “normal,” for the situation you were in.
When I was 20 weeks pregnant with Osh, my routine sonogram that was so exciting the first time around, took a realllly long time! I had to wait in the public waiting room while the doctor looked over the sonograms. When she came out, she took me aside, and sat me down (uh oh). It turns out, she said, that there were some unusual findings that were common in babies with trisomy 13 or 18. The doctor and that those abnormalities were “incompatible with life.” Those were the doctor’s exact words, and she said them so plainly, as though that was the sugar-coated version. Since I was so far along, she said, I would need to decide quickly if I wanted to abort. The first thoughts that I had were very similar to yours.
Thank God I had a supportive OBGYN, and that the amnio a few days later came back healthy… but those were the worst few days of my entire life.
I feel for you, for the pain and struggle you went through.
I hope that in writing this, and receiving support from all the people in your life, and in this blog, you are able to heal, and accept yourself. Feelings are never right or wrong. You just happen to be honest and brave enough to share yours. You are an amazing person, and mother, and role model.
Sending you hugs.
Natalie
Wow, thanks Natalie. For your words and for sharing your story here. Hugs back to you!
Thanks so much for sharing this, Ann. You wrote it beautifully, and it helps to remind me how deep everyone’s stories are and how much we all have to learn about each other.
Much love,
Gillian
Thanks so much, Gillian. We so often forget that so many of us (all of us?) have a story of some sort. The question often is, which of us is living our story at any given moment?
Ann, I am so moved by your story, as well as by the responses you are getting and by your responses to the responses.
this is all too amazing, I’m floored with awe and love.
I’m not going to respond to each commenter individually, because they are not commenting to me, but to you. Still I want you to know that I am savoring all of the magic on your two posts, and grateful to you for this.
Yael, this has been such a remarkable experience. And, even though it is slowing down, I don’t think it’s over. The responses here, on facebook, offline…they’re reminders that we all have “stories” and so many of us still have healing to do. And SO many of us are grateful for a sense of community, even virtual. So, again, I thank you for planting this seed and giving me a forum.
Ann,
I always admired you and James for becoming foster parents to newborns. I am now even more in awe of what you so selflessly do for these babies. This was possibly the most honest and courageous piece of writing I ever read. You shared a part of your history that will help so many others not feel like “monsters.” Thank you for letting us share your story.
Jenny
Jenny, your words touch me so. I, of course, had ambivalence here and there about this piece. Thank you so much for the encouraging thoughts. *hugs* from us to you.
Ann, this moved me to tears. We all want a perfect child. Your story is helping so many to read and understand. You are an amazing woman with so much compassion and courage. Hugs.
Wow, Jenny…speechless. but thank you so much for your words. They are a blessing to me.
This made me so sad. Your story is heartbreaking, as is any story of pregnancy or baby loss and I applaud you for having the courage to share your story. It is only by sharing our stories that we can start to remove the stigma and isolation of these losses, so no-one has to suffer alone.
Having said that, I want to share with you the following idea; We all want perfect. But we would accept and embrace less than perfect if it meant a happy, quality life for our child. What we, as moms, cannot accept is the idea that our children should suffer. That they should have to endure a moment of unnecessary pain, even die in pain in our arms, that is a reality so many loving mothers cannot accept for their babies. Women that make the heartbreaking choice you were spared from making make their choice out of love. They endure the pain of loss and guilt and sadness and grief in exchange that their babies can be sent to rest painlessly and in peace.
Had your child not died and you had made that heartbreaking choice, I believe you would have learned that beneath your fear and desire for “perfection” lay a much deeper desire… a desire to spare your child (and living children, by extension) from suffering. Please do not think your decision to have an abortion makes you a monster. It is a decision made from love, not fear.
I am so sorry for your losses.
Ann, you are a blessing to your family, your husband, your former community in Ithaca and your current community. I now understand where you get the courage to foster these babies and then pass them along to their next stage in life. Kudos to James, also, for being the loving man he is and supporting you in your desires. Love, Corinne
Thank so much, Corinne, for those words. They truly mean so much to me. And, yes, James only “skims” so will unfortunately miss this. But kudos to him, as well.
Hugs Momma. I started bleeding during my 4th pregnancy and was blessed to still have my baby boy born, but the day the bleeding started, I didn’t want my baby either. Because I knew if God was taking him from me, he wasn’t perfect. I am somewhat convinced I was carrying twins. I have no idea why, other than there was no other explanation given for such massive bleeding. Maybe that baby wasn’t perfect, so I’m okay with the loss if it was. It brought me compassion towards those who have lost their babies.
I hope someday I can find a way to help babies like you do. I would want to keep them and snuggle them forever, but I admire deeply what you do and why. Shalom.
I’m just drawn to blow you hugs and kisses right now and thank you tremendously for your honesty. Thanks for sharing it in this space.