Losing Hope

I quit! I can’t do this anymore and I can’t take it anymore. It’s just too much.

Some of you women and men know this feeling. You have gone round after round trying to have a child and you get nothing but heartache. I was there too, with my husband.

My husband and I were married in beautiful picturesque Colorado. The venue had a stunning view off of the large deck. On one side, the left, there was a pristine view of downtown Denver, and on the next corner to the right, the most glorious view of the front range. The sun was setting in the sky and the city was, just recently, lit up. The light was not entirely gone, and had cast an etherial misty glow to the mountains, coloring them in varying shades of amber, blue, and violet. It was the most magical sight to have on your wedding day.

We had been a couple for fifteen months and this was our beginning. A new life, new identities as married individuals, not single, and new adventures as partners.

On our honeymoon, in Orlando we got pregnant. We went to Disney Parks, Universal, and Sea World, the whole gambit of escape from reality. This was four days after 9/11. I recount that story another time.

All of the parks were empty, except for the die hards, that would allow nothing to deter them from their happy place. It was not where we had intended to go for a honeymoon, but since all flights had been cancelled, we rented a car and did what many red blooded Americans do for fun. We theme parked.

I am not complaining at all. I love the whole Orlando experience. Back then, twenty five years now, the parks were more reasonably priced, not the exorbitant rates we see today. We had a blast. My family went with us, since they could not fly out for the wedding, for obvious reasons, and it was a good time for all. No lines, mild temperatures, and the laziness that comes with vacationing.

As I stated, on the honeymoon, we got pregnant. I didn’t know it at the time, naturally. When we returned from the honeymoon, we resumed our careers and it was business as usual.

Six weeks later, I began experiencing severe headaches. They were migraine type headaches, but not exactly the same, and I was worried. I have, on occasion, had a migraine, and for those who do as well, I feel for you all. These were not migraines. So, I went to see a doctor.

Between making the appointment and actually going in for the appointment, the mind of this woman, went hog wild. Each thought a more devastating scenario. The most prevalent one was brain cancer. I was sure, I was about to go through a trauma from which there was no return for me. I began grieving for my husband and for the pain he would suffer with me and then at my departure. It was a good time. (not)

The appointment. I went through the physical exam, no problem. Gave my blood eagerly to the vampire, and peed in the teeny weeny cup. The items were taken, as the doctor stated it would be a little bit before we would get results, and that he had ordered stat results. Stat mean immediate, if any of you don’t know the term, though I am sure most of you have seen at least one episode of a doctor program, in your lifetimes.

You know that feeling you get when you are waiting for something important, and you can hear the tick of every increment of the second hand on a clock? Yes, that where I was. Added to that, I had asked my husband to stay in the waiting room, because I did’t want him to hear the bad news, I was certain was coming. And so, I sat there feeling like a ticking time bomb.

A knock came at the door, not too long after I was left there, and the doctor returned. As he walked in, I began to shake inside. This could not be good.

The first thing my physician said was that I most certainly did not have brain cancer. The next thing was a shock I never expected. I was informed that I was pregnant. He said I was shy of six weeks and that I should make an appointment with an obstetrician. He then asked if I wanted him to get my husband and sent the nurse to collect him.

My husband came in calmly, men are so rational, and took one look at my face, tears streaming down my face, and began to look concerned. Doc shook his hand and my husband asked if everything was okay. By this time, he thought surely there was something wrong. Well, long story short, he came up to me kissed my forehead and held my hand, turning to the doctor, who informed him we were expecting.

It was a surreal moment, the first time those words are uttered. Your mind goes into overdrive, as you try to envision, not just the ten months of pregnancy, but the major impact and change this would be in your lives. My brain was firing in a millions directions. This was how I spent the weeks before my following appointment, which was with an obstetrician.

The first obstetric appointment day came and I went in with my husband. This time he came into the exam room with me. The usual took place, blood was drawn by another vampire, and the cup was filled for the mad scientists in the cave somewhere in the bowels of the practice. Doc ordered an ultrasound and said we would take a look and see our first glimpse of the wonder.

Now for all you ladies out there, who have not had this experience yet, know that the first ultrasound is transvaginal. The means that you will not get to enjoy the ice cold gel on the tummy and the wands gliding over it. Nope. This is a long phallus looking wand, covered in a condom, and slathered with KY jelly. Yes you get to have your husband watch as this object is inserted and as an image pops up on the screen.

It is truly amazing technology. The doctor viewed all parts of my internal female anatomy. The wand was moved around and he pointed out all my parts. As he was maneuvering the device, he was explaining what we would see. He said we would see a tiny speck the size of a grain of rice, and we would hear the fetal heart pulse. I didn’t mention, that ultrasound machines have sound, but they do. But there was no sound other than a weird whooshing.

The word no one wants to hear came next. He said he didn’t see a fetus and that there was no fetal pulse.

We were confused and asked what that meant, and were told that more than likely, the pregnancy was not viable or healthy, and that it was no longer alive. He said he would check the blood work, and that the office would call me with the confirmation.

We left the office sad, and disappointed, and a couple days later, we got the call confirming the fact. My doctors office then asked if I wanted to schedule the procedure to remove the pregnancy or if I wanted to let nature take its course.

I don’t know about you, but my preference was not to walk around with a deceased baby inside me, so I opted for the surgery as soon as possible. I was scheduled within the week. The alternative would have been weeks until my body would expel it like a very bad period. There would also be the possibility that I would have severe cramps, which I was already used to, but there was also the possibility that I would not expel it completely and would need to come in for the D & C, anyway. I had the D & C.

We asked if we could try again afterwards and were told that after three months it would be fine. So we did, and we got pregnant again.

I had no symptoms this time. When my period was late, I went to the gynecologist and once again I was, pregnant. I was about eight weeks along based on how late I was. They brought in the ultrasound machine after taking blood again, and it was business as usual. Again, there was no fetal pulse, and no pretty little grain of rice.

Again, disappointed flooded my heart and my husband’s as we schedule yet another D & C. We went through the same routine and waited the three months to try again.

I should tell you young women out there, that for a baby to grow and come to full term, every thing has to have the perfect conditions. Any imperfections in the baby or the woman, and 99 times out of 100, the pregnancy will not succeed. With that in mind, it really is miraculous when it actually succeeds. It still boggles my mind, and I worked in the medical field.

Anyway, we tried again a few months later. I actually didn’t miss a period and then I spotted at an off time, when I should not have, and I went in a third time to see what was happening. Again, I was informed I was pregnant and again, my now bestie, Wand-a came in and was inserted to take a baby’s first selfie.

I was not thrilled to have to go through that ultrasound experience again, but is is unavoidable.

Then I heard something. I pulsing and swooshing sound. I asked what that sound was, and was told, that it was my babies heart, beating. Tears were running down my face.

Until you have heard that sound, you think you you have heard beautiful sounds or music, but I assure you, nothing compares to the first time you hear your little human’s beating heart.

The ultrasound was now over, I was given prenatal vitamins and a follow up in couple weeks. The amount of information you are handed when you first get pregnant is mind boggling. I took it all in stride and was happy about it. It was determined that I was eight weeks along.

Three weeks later I went into the doctor again, and went through the usual. Blood, vampire, cup, tinkle, rinse and repeat. The doctor came in followed by the nurse and my bestie Wand-a. Again a condom sheathed rod was inserted and again, my doctor examined every part of my internal parts. He moved the device all over the place, and I was not hearing anything.

Yes, you already know what I am going to say. There was no heartbeat, no grain of rice pulsing on the screen. Baby number three, at eleven weeks, was deceased, as all the others had been. This was especially devastating for us. To hear life and then not hear it, is hard, and heart wrenching.

I took a leave of absence from work, because I was depressed and just not okay from this experience. On my last day before I was to take my leave, I went to the ladies’ room and while I was peeing, I saw this tube of dipsticks. I was not sure what they were for, but I grabbed on and peed on it, just for fun. I was always a curious person, and working in the medical field for twenty five years, kept me curious.

The little pad at the end of the stick turned dark brown, immediately. No time wasted. The bottle it came from had no description as to what it was supposed to be testing for, so I came out and asked the doctor I worked for, what the strips were for. “Sugar in the urine,” she said.

What did that mean? Well when sugar is present in the urine, there is a possibility that there is diabetes involved. Wow.

I came to find out, that I was indeed diabetic. I never had symptoms of any kind, and while I did experience low blood sugar, I thought nothing of it. Diabetics will understand, when I say that the A1C results were 10.5 and that meant I had had this condition for a long long time. I made an appointment with an endocrinologist.

The endocrinologist then gave me some valuable information. He told me that when pregnancy occurs, the bodies use of its natural insulin doubles every day. The mean that if today I needed 1 unit, tomorrow I’d need 2, and the next day four, then 8, 16, 32 and so on, on a daily basis. He said that my undiagnosed condition was the reason I lost all three pregnancies.

Now in order to get those high A1C numbers down, he put me on a new wonder, called an insulin pump. He said that it would get my numbers in order quickly, by dosing me consistently as My body required. He also said that if we would get pregnant again, that the device would be imperative in order to carry a baby to term, alive.

We were not intending to try again, and were actively considering adoption or surrogacy by this point. But I learned how to use it and went on my way.

Soon after, we moved to Kansas. We were setting up our first home, when my husband

was accepted into the engineer program, almost three hours away. He would have to go and stay up there for the week, and come home on the weekend, and return on Sunday nights to K.C..

The week he was getting ready to depart, I went for a routine exam and I am sure you know what I am about to say. Yup. I was again pregnant, even though we were not trying to be. We didn’t want to go through another miscarriage, again.

This was my fourth pregnancy. And I was not excited. At all. My husband said he would come home if anything happened and be there with me, and I sent him off.

This time, I was sent to a perinatologist instead of an obstetrician, owing to my many miscarriages. I also was asked to immediately get into my endocrine doctor. I did both.

The diabetes dock told me what to expect, and that he would monitor my A1C’s throughout the pregnancy, and that the pump will be valuable in keeping up the insulin requirement for the baby’s survival.

The perinatologist was a wonderfully, sweet man. He ordered blood and urine again. The urine showed the pregnant positive, and the blood immediately came back with its findings.

“Here it comes,” I thought. But it didn’t come. The blood work confirmed the pregnancy and showed it was still viable. Then came the ultrasound. And low and behold there he was, pulsing away.

The doctor let me watch and listen for a little bit. Tears were again watering my cheeks and filling my ears. My husband was silent, as the doctor talked us through what he was seeing, as he took measurements, and as he said the heartbeat was strong.

We were told that I would go in throughout the pregnancy, on a weekly basis, to have blood work and ultrasounds. And I was good with that. There is nothing more difficult after losing a pregnancy that waiting until the next one to know if you can hold on for a while longer until you return for consistent reassurance that your baby is still there.

Every week the nurse or doctor took ultrasounds. Every week I would get a copy of my son’s selfie to take home. I’d post it on the fridge and have it on display for my husband every weekend he came home. I have an album of pics, up until the very last month. It is my most prized item. Every time I look at it, I tear up.

I had lost all hope. We had given up. We had stopped actively trying to get pregnant, and we had resolved that maybe we were not fated to have a family, other than the two of us. That’s when the best part of my life came.

I had a pregnant belly, growing. At eighteen weeks, I found out we were having our son. A boy was all I ever wanted, and I got it.

The insulin pump kept my A1C in order and in fact, that with careful and very healthy eating, had my numbers at 4.3 my entire pregnancy. That better than a person without diabetes.

By the third trimester, our bodies were consuming an entire bottle of insulin a day. That is an amount you could not possible inject daily. My insulin bill for the insurance was over $14,000 for that trimester.

The insurance actually denied it, and when I called and told them I would hold them personally responsible if my child died in utero, and that I would bring the entire legal force down to bear, I was immediately shipped my truckload of the only thing that would ensure I didn’t have a fourth failed attempt.

I have to say to any couple trying to have a baby, to not lose all hope. There are so many things that can prevent the success of a baby, and many conditions to consider, but don’t lose hope. Keep trying until you have nothing left in you, if you want a baby that much. Then if there is no possibility, think about adopting. There are millions of children that need a family that wants children that badly, that they kept trying until they had nothing left. They need that kind of passion for them.

My son is twenty now. He lives on his own, in Colorado, the state where the adventure began, for him and me, as a couple. He was born completely healthy and did not have any signs of diabetes, himself.

The doctor who was wise enough to know what I would need with respect to pregnancy and insulin was Dr. Timothy Gordon Goodman. I won’t ever forget him. He lives in every cell of my son. I named my son after him, because it was this man that needed to be a part of Elijahs life, as, much are ours.

His name is Elijah, which means “the LORD is my God”. I prayed for him for years and I had to honor my God and faith in prayer. Elijah’s middle name is Dr. Gordon’s middle name, Gordon. Gordon means great fort, or great hill.

We used the doctor’s middle name because he was Jewish and in that faith, you do not name a child after a living family member. We honored that and gave him Dr. Goodman’s middle name.

Don’t give up. Don’t lose hope. And no matter what, there is always a child needing a loving family. So if you cant physically birth a child, you can still raise one with love.