What Blooms After the Rain by Jennifer Davis-Bachmann
What Blooms After the Rain
Jennifer Davis-Bachmann
“What is grief, if not love preserving?”
-Vision, WandaVision (A Marvel Television Show)
No one deserves to lose an unborn child, yet it happens more often than many expect. It is also a topic that does not get discussed publicly. It comes with shame, embarrassment, suspicion, heartache, surprise, shock, disappointment; it can be scary and depressing. Miscarriage is a situation that can happen to a woman and couples more than once. Miscarriage is a life changing event. Let me share my story with you on how grief came to visit and how I worked through it.
The First Loss
On January 7, 2013 at 4:15pm, I walk alone, excited and nervous, down the dimmed hallway of the hospital towards the Ultrasound/Radiology Department. I am happy to be able to hear the rhythmic heartbeat of my second child growing within my womb. My long time dream and wishes will be coming to fruition. I check in at the desk and am directed to wait to be called back when it’s my turn. After a few minutes, my turn arrives and I head back. There is a quiet station with a large lounging chair covered in hard gray plastic, with a computer screen and equipment situated in front of me facing away. The sonographer asks me questions, types my answers into the profile, and informs me on the procedure for receiving the ultrasound.
My excitement mounts when my shirt is moved up over my small swollen mound of a belly. (A mere fourteen weeks along and my belly is slightly larger earlier than it was with my first child). The aqua-colored gel squirts on my skin, cooling to the touch, and then spreads around into growing swirls and spirals over where the uterus is positioned. The ultrasound wand is gently pressed onto the mound and all I can see is the sonographer’s facial expressions of what seems like confusion, defeat, and a glimpse of momentary fear. She spots something and I ask what she sees. She scans the area on the screen again with even more concentration and focus on getting digital measurements, seeing shapes within the uterus, and then silence. The time to be hearing the beating of blood flowing through the tiny heart of the babe passes and flits away. I ask, can I see what she is looking at? Is there a baby inside, to be seen? Is there a heartbeat? Silence. Crickets weren’t even chirping in my mind. It was like the wind stopped blowing and the world went silent. The moment seemed like a year.
I asked if there was something wrong? Silence. Deep internal alarms are sounding and blood is pounding hard in my ears. There has to be something not right and she is not telling me. The words that rolled out of the slit of her mouth were “Wait here please. I will be checking with the doctor/radiologist about what they can determine from the ultrasound.” She stepped away before we can both fathom what impending doom awaits us both if the incorrect thing would have been said. At this time, it was obvious that something big was not right. I prepare to hear bad news. Yet, when the sonographer returns, she says that I can go and wait for a phone call from my doctor.
In my mind I thought, “Okay I really know that something about this situation is not right. It seems unjust, and my right to know what is going on is being dismissed. Now I know what it’s like for the dust on the floor when it gets swept under the rug. With this last statement it felt like there was no consideration for treating me with compassion as a whole person or a pregnant woman going through this alone at the moment. Worst of all, I was not being communicated with then and there about what was discovered in the ultrasound. This became a situation of trauma and loss immediately when I was not able to see or hear anything on the ultrasound screen.
At the time I was unaware of the correct procedure. In my ignorance and naivety, I did not understand why I was being sent home (away) when this seemed like a situation where I should stay for more explanation. I did not know that I could call the medical provider with the sad news from this type of ultrasound right away. I did not know that I could stay there and make this phone call.
After the ultrasound and receiving the prompt to leave with this heartbreak, I stood up, gathered my belongings and made my way down the hall about thirty steps. A whisper in my head said reach out for support. I pulled out my phone and immediately called my mom. When I hear her voice, a river comes out my eyes and I pour out my soul. My heart was breaking and I didn't know what to do, to fight or flee, so I froze. My mom asked if I had called the doctor myself, and I replied “No.. She said that I should do this and see what they advised, then call her back. I did this before even stepping foot outside of the hospital doors.
The Aftermath
When I called the doctor’s office, a doctor (not my primary physician/OBGYN) explained that the ultrasound office should have had me stay there and call the doctor immediately to discuss the ultrasound results. She said this in a very supportive way, acknowledging that she was sorry and validating the effects of the experience. Also, I was scheduled for a follow up appointment with my primary physician/OB GYN the following day to discuss the results of the ultrasound, receive a physical exam, and find out the next steps. After the call ended, I walked to my car. I sat processing in silence for a bit, then I called my mom back to figure out a plan and discuss how I was going to handle this situation. I realized that I was carrying a non-living, unborn child in my womb and wondering how or what to do about telling my partner at home in the evening.
The quiet waiting time between the start of the trauma and the sharing of the experience with my partner felt like forever. I realized I was going to choose to keep moving forward with my everyday activities because I have an amazing, loving, and supportive partner and kiddo at home to be with and care for. I have the present moment.
Sharing the sad news and my experience went as expected; we were both disheartened. I felt isolated because I did not know how to explain the emotions rising within me, I did not know fully what was happening, and I did not know how to identify my emotions within this trauma. I only knew something was not right.The next day I met up with my mom at the follow up appointment. The primary physician was there and she explained that the results for the ultrasound were showing no heartbeat from the fetus. This meant the pregnancy stopped when the heartbeat stopped and my body was beginning the process of miscarriage. The reasons were not fully known. It was not my fault or my partner's fault, it was something outside of anyone’s control. The next step would be to arrange for a prescription medication to be used to help the cervix dilate and release the fetus in preparation for the Dilation and Curettage (“D&C,” the operation to remove the fetus and any excess tissue in the uterus.) This appointment was hard to get through, but I felt very supported during this doctor’s news and information and by my mom’s presence.
Within the following two weeks of the ultrasound, I received the oral medication and took it as prescribed.Within twenty-four hours of taking the last pill and waiting for something to happen, I called the primary physician and let her know that nothing had progressed, so instructions were given to apply the medication internally overnight. By morning there was a pause in the contractions within a two to four hour time period of the medication taking effect and my cervix was dilated enough to allow for the delivery of the fetus. A strong contraction happened, a pressure in the abdomen, and a slippery whooshing feeling came and went. That was the birth of my baby. It came and went so fast. I was so sad and shocked from the situation I was in. I felt alone, but I knew I had loved ones near.
I called the hospital to let them know the status of the medication’s effects and of the delivery of the fetus. The hospital said come in as soon as possible and the appointment will continue to happen as scheduled. My family arrived, and we made our way to the hospital. I went through the procedure safely and recovered smoothly over the next week. The toughest part was the emotional wounding and the beginning of grief; recovering from the trauma and loss.
I was feeling defeated and empty, just putting one foot in front of the other to finish this part of the process. Becoming more and more. How could this happen? How could I let this happen? Will I ever have any more children? Is this my fault? Why did this happen to me and my partner? What went wrong? All the hopes and dreams that won’t be fulfilled. Our goals were crushed. A downward spiral of sadness and grief. Our journey was shifting and we needed to shift with it.
What followed were many appointments and blood tests to watch the body's regulation of hormones. This was to ensure my body was healthy and would return to a regular monthly cycle. Eventually I physically recovered, but the grief and heartbreak were still fresh and would be for a long time. We were in a rain storm and waiting to see what came next; waiting to see what blooms after the rain.
The Journey Continues
This journey of loss and grief lasted until 2018. My partner and I both wanted to have more children, and we were successful with becoming pregnant two more times. Both times resulted in miscarriages One pregnancy was a partial molar pregnancy[1] (2014) and the other pregnancy was a full molar pregnancy (2017). There was new sadness and a heartache each time.This was also our sign to stop trying for a “Rainbow Baby”[2] and carry on with our lives filled with gratitude for our one healthy child.The grief experienced was the love for what was and was lost.
At the time I did not know what to do with this sadness and heartbreak. It was always present, wrapped around me like a cloak. I started seeking information on how to heal from the loss and to celebrate the life that once was growing and dying inside me. It was in the seeking that I found comfort most in sharing my stories of miscarriage, the small memorials I was creating, finding more people with similar stories of loss and grief, plus finding time to be reverent and going inwards to heal my heartache. I sought therapy, I read, and I developed a practice of building a healthier connection with myself and loved ones. In all of this I grew to see grief as not just sadness, but as a gift of joy and love from the “angel babies” that blessed me with the opportunity to hold space for them within my womb, even for the briefest time. These experiences and memories will be remembered forever. It is within this grief that love for them can keep living. We are empowered and resilient from this experience.
Hello there, this is Jennifer Davis-Bachmann. It is an honor to share my story with you. Along with writing, I create art, do photography, go out in nature, spend time with family and friends, and work in the healing arts.
[1] American Pregnancy Association, “Molar Pregnancy.” “A molar pregnancy is an abnormality of the placenta, caused by a problem when the egg and sperm join together at fertilization. Also called gestational.” https://americanpregnancy.org/?s=molar+pregnancy
[2]American Pregnancy Association, “What is a Rainbow Baby?” “Rainbow baby is a healthy baby born after losing a baby due to miscarriage, infant loss, stillbirth, or neonatal death.” https://americanpregnancy.org/getting-pregnant/pregnancy-loss/what-is-a-rainbow-baby
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