Mighty Oaks from Little Acorns: A Story of Pregnancy Loss & Recovery
Written by Shay Gabriel
The following blog post shares my personal experience with early pregnancy loss. Please consult with a professional and consider doula support before making your own informed decisions throughout trying to conceive, pregnancy, loss, or birth. Remember, you have the right to informed consent and refusal. And you deserve a supportive team of professionals who takes you seriously and treats you with comfortable care and respect. If you have any questions about doula care or what to expect throughout pregnancy and beyond, connect with us here. We’re here to journey alongside you!
Timer Ding, One Pink Line
The first time I took a home pregnancy test when trying to conceive, I felt so carefree. So…patient and unhurried. I knew it could take months to get pregnant, and I was aware of my family’s miscarriage history. I had invested so little time into trying, so my expectations – well, I didn’t have any expectations, really.
Timer ding, one pink line, not pregnant. Onward to next month!
Onward to next month!
I decided to invest in some tiny pregnancy test strips (because wow do those big plastic tests add up), and my kit came with LH tests (luteinizing hormone), too. So I tested my LH before the appropriate part of my cycle just to become familiar with how they work. Much to my confusion, the strips were reading positive and very dark – and continued to remain positive for days of testing. I knew enough to realize that something wasn’t quite right with the strips – or with me. So I did a little Googling (like ya do), and I discovered that LH tests can read positive long term if…you’re pregnant. So I dipped a little pregnancy test strip to rule that out. But lo and behold, it was positive.
Thus came and went my single solid month of carefree TTC.
Peace out, peace of mind
How was I negative 10+ days after ovulation, and I’m positive now? We’re pregnant!? Oh my god we’re really pregnant? Wait but how…I had my period…I can’t be pregnant…The strip says I’m pregnant.
Riddled in confusion mixed with elation mixed with fear, I told my husband: We’re…pregnant?
We’re…pregnant?
I must have stopped testing too soon. Plenty of womxn experience bleeding in early pregnancy, right? This could be totally normal. It wasn’t a period like I thought.
Soon enough, the tell-tale symptoms of pregnancy began to make their appearance. I wondered what white cis male came up with the term “morning sickness” while I ever-nauseously awaited our very first ultrasound.
Our first, horrible, heartbreaking ultrasound. The one where we greeted some stranger ultrasound tech and left calling her a treasured friend. She talked us through what she could — and couldn’t — see on the screen, before comforting us through our tears. There was a sac. There was no yolk.
“I’m not actually pregnant?”
“You are pregnant...but we don’t see a baby.”
“You are pregnant...but we don’t see a baby.”
I knew it could take time to get pregnant. I knew I could experience loss. I hadn’t really considered that confusing, empty, ever-nauseous, why-am-I-suffering-these-effing-pointless-symptoms space that’s both and neither. The hellish in-between.
I was scheduled for a repeat ultrasound two weeks later. Talk about a “two-week-wait.”
In the meantime, we were sent to the lab for bloodwork. They wanted to know my HCG levels and to see if the pregnancy hormone was rising or falling. There would be several blood draws to come. My first visit, it took everything I could muster not to burst into tears while seated in a room full of strangers.
Don’t cry, not here. Just look down.
Lab sheet. Why did I have to look at the lab sheet? I was horrified at what the lab sheet read. Threatened abortion!? Give a girl a freaking heads up, will you!? I had never heard nor seen the term before, and it felt so triggering. I thought to myself, Miscarriage. I’m having a miscarriage. I knew this could happen. I’ll be okay.
My name was finally called, and with the most disgusting taste in my mouth, I accepted my new vocation as expert blood draw patient. The tears rolled as we exited the building.
As soon as I could, I sought refuge in bed, where I would mostly reside for the next 14 days of a living nightmare. Where I would scroll on my phone screen, digging for other stories like mine. I scoured every record of “And suddenly there was a baby!” for clues, as if the answer to my pleas would somehow be found in an online forum. Then I’d talk myself out of the clouds again, focusing on swallowing the most surprising meal considered acceptable to my ever-nauseous body: buffalo mac & cheese, gifted to us by friends. We’ll get through this.
The longest two weeks of my life spent in bed eventually passed, and we had the follow-up ultrasound. A sac. No yolk. No heartbeat. No baby.
“It’s called a blighted ovum.”
“It’s called a blighted ovum.”
And so we faced a crossroads. We could wait for my body to release the remnants of pregnancy on its own, I could take a prescription drug to induce miscarriage, or I could have my pregnancy-but-no-baby surgically removed.
I was weary of the risks involved with a dilation and curettage, also known as a D&C.
And I didn’t think my heart could take the unknowns of spontaneously miscarrying – how many more days? weeks? months would it take? Would I be at work? At home? In the middle of home decor shopping at Marshalls?
So I went with the unhappy medium – Cytotec, please and no thank you.
The Unhappy Medium
My OB said he liked to take a more aggressive approach with Cytotec; he gave me twice as much as other doctors might prescribe, and he told me to vaginally administer half first, only using the second half if nothing happened after several hours. He also prescribed a painkiller alongside the Cytotec.
“What? A painkiller? Is this going to hurt?”
My doctor, who had never experienced a uterine cramp in his life, assured me that it wouldn’t really hurt and the painkiller was probably unnecessary. He cautioned me on what to look for with bleeding and if/when to go to the ER. He didn’t really explain to me what I know now — that the Cytotec was essentially going to induce labor, ripen and soften my cervix, and allow my cervix to dilate enough to pass what was left of my pregnancy.
So I went home, administered the Cytotec as prescribed. And rather than take the painkiller, I took my doctor at his word.
All too late did I discover he was wrong about the pain. As I was in the throes of fruitless back labor, I instinctually retreated to the warm bath for comfort. My husband brought me cheese, crackers, and the painkillers I wished I had already taken as I sobbed in pain. Fear-driven, unanticipated, emotional, spiritual, and physical pain. At least I could take something for the latter.
As I labored for no one, I wondered, What’s next for us? Why me? Can I even carry a pregnancy full term?
High as a Kite
The painkiller didn’t kick in very quickly, but it eventually kicked in very suddenly. I felt high as a kite. I got out of the bathtub and cozied up on the sofa until something inside me said to get to the toilet.
I sat down on the toilet and felt the most bizarre pressure. Next thing I knew, I had given birth to a balloon. My body had prepared a magical place to grow a baby, and there it sat, between my legs, as a surge of inexplicable hormones took over me. I felt intense relief. Joy, even.
Is this normal? Is it the drugs? Why am I bursting with pride?
I had done it. I had endured miscarriage and made it through to the other side. I had crossed the threshold between pregnant and not pregnant, and somehow gave birth to new hope. It was as if I was able to see my body for all that it had accomplished in that moment.
I did conceive in the first place. My body did want to hang on to that pregnancy, and it tried to. I would survive this and we would try to conceive again.
And try we did
And try we did. For several months without success.
Several months of an unfamiliar body sentenced to confusing, lingering, long-lasting post-miscarriage symptoms that always seemed to suggest “pregnant” but never really meant it. Months of sharp pains, intense nausea, sensitivity to smell, fatigue, severe bloating, horrible menstrual cramps – the list of symptoms was long and eventually predictable throughout each cycle.
Is this the month I’m pregnant again? Nope. Is this the month? Still nope.
I would relay my situation to my OB, but he didn’t seem concerned. I, however, grew increasingly concerned with each passing month of strange symptoms and negative pregnancy tests.
At some point, he ordered an ultrasound to see if there was any lingering tissue from my pregnancy. Nope, all clear. “Everything looks fine on the ultrasound – see you back here when you’re pregnant again!”
More months would pass, and again I would tell my doctor: “Something isn’t quite right with my body. These symptoms aren’t normal for me. My hormones seem confused. How long will this go on?”
The verdict: “Sometimes when we really want to be pregnant, our bodies act like they are.”
Mic drop. Jaw drop. Tear drop.
Am I doing this to myself? What is wrong with me? Do I want to become pregnant so badly that my body is behaving as if it is? But what about every period where I am convinced there’s no way I am pregnant and still my body just doesn’t seem to be…normal?
These and other questions plagued my mind. I felt unheard, invalidated, and still so off. I flitted between frustration and denial. Could I trust my body? Could I trust my doctor?
Could I trust my body? Could I trust my doctor?
One day, as I was in the middle of a guided meditation, something clicked.
My body was trying to communicate with me, and I hadn't really been listening. I realized that to experience true, whole healing, I couldn't just focus on my mind and spirit as I had been. I needed to engage my body...and it was telling me things my doctor couldn't. I was more than an image on a screen in the ultrasound room. But what to do? Who to trust? Where to start?
So, I took to Google (like ya do). I searched for "natural healing after miscarriage", and I found a video on clearing liver qi stagnation/detoxing & rebalancing hormones, hosted by a doula. It was like she was speaking directly to me, about my symptoms. I felt so seen, so validated, so hopeful! I was absolutely on board with this new routine — application of castor oil packs throughout specific parts of the menstrual cycle — which was so simple and paired so perfectly with the meditations I was already practicing. It was worth a try, right?
It was worth a try
After one cycle of applying castor oil packs to my abdomen during meditations, several of my symptoms were completely gone. You want details? I’ll give you this: No amount of regular fiber and hydration seemed able to cure my post-miscarriage constipation, but I had a normal poop for the first time in months right after the first castor oil session! The link between constipation and sharp pains in my abdomen and severe cramping — it started to make sense. It was as if each time a symptom was relieved, it made way for the next symptom to heal, too. Everything was connected.
My hormones seemed to be finding a balance, too. I was mindful of when normal symptoms would come and go throughout the follicular and luteal phases, and they felt less intense and didn’t linger as long as they had been for months post-miscarriage. And then, my period — a regular, healthy period. A normal, healthy cycle.
I thought, maybe in a matter of a few more months, I would finally be healed, and maybe, just maybe, I'd become pregnant again.
Pregnant in body, mind, & spirit
Just in time to celebrate our third wedding anniversary, and only days before our first due date: Two pink lines. Much to my surprise, I had become pregnant after that first healthy period post-miscarriage! And this time, things would be different — full-term pregnancy or otherwise.
My brief stray from modern westernized medicine had changed my body, opened my mind, and reinvigorated my spirit. Throughout this new pregnancy, I found myself more integrated, mindful, and aware than ever before.
I hired a doula (Sprout and Blossom’s Annica! It’s part of the back story to why I’m here on the blog, writing this to all of you now, as content director for the team.)
I listened to episode after episode of the Birthful podcast produced by doula Adriana Lozada.
I questioned my medical care providers, leaned into my intuition, and embraced my right to informed choice.
I did my research. (Check out Evidence Based Birth, an invaluable resource!)
I made the switch from the medical model to the midwifery model of care, and I planned a homebirth at 34 weeks pregnant.
Mighty oaks from little acorns grow
At the time of my blighted ovum miscarriage, a friend who had also experienced pregnancy loss recommended getting a necklace to honor my pregnancy. To honor the reality that my journey as a mother began well before a baby made it into my arms. So I ordered a gold necklace with one tiny little acorn. I took solace in the idea that “Mighty oaks from little acorns grow.”
And it’s true. My first little acorn made a mighty oak tree out of me.
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Shay Gabriel is the content director at Sprout and Blossom whose love of parenthood and psychology has merged into a super-obsession of all things birthy and baby. She believes an informed experience lends to an empowered experience, no matter where you are along the journey.