A few months after marrying my older man, Keegan, I found out that I was pregnant with our second child. But this pregnancy was different from the first one—it was a lot harder with a lot more morning sickness. On top of that, it changed my tastes all together. All I wanted was meat and salt instead of vegetables and sweets. We had already heard the heartbeat and were just waiting for an ultrasound appointment before breaking the news to everyone.
At around 11 weeks, the morning sickness subsided and I started feeling a lot better. My energy was starting to return and life couldn’t be grander. I remember telling Keegan that I hoped the rest of the pregnancy was that way; it didn’t even feel like I was pregnant.
We entered the room where Theresa was to do our ultrasound. She did all of my ultrasounds with our first child, so she knew us well. I laid there looking at the monitor while she prepared everything. Meanwhile, my husband cracked a crude joke that I thought was hilarious, but clearly made Theresa uncomfortable. To change the subject, I looked over at the monitor and told her about how the pregnancy recently became easier.
Then, an image of our baby showed up on the screen. I remember saying, “Wow, it’s so still.” And then it dawned on me.
“Well, it doesn’t look like this little one made it…” said Theresa.
Keegan and I both immediately burst into tears. How could this possibly happen when things were going so well? Keegan held me while asking her to check again, but my crying made it difficult for her to do another ultrasound. She confirmed after a few more images were snapped that I had a “missed miscarriage.” Despite being 12 weeks along and already hearing a heartbeat at our last appointment, they theorized that I probably lost the baby a week ago and my body failed to recognize it.
I immediately demanded the procedure to remove the baby for the very next morning, which was swift and painful. I cried, and cried, and cried some more. All the while, Keegan was by my side, holding me close and comforting me. The pregnancy cravings continued on for another month, like a cruel reminder of how my body betrayed me. It was after this that I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), taken off work for two months, heavily medicated, and sent to counseling twice a week.
The “tissue” that was my baby was sent for testing, and I finally got answers about why this happened. It broke my heart even more, and unfortunately, it was only going to get worse…