Marina Jo's Place

Some girls dream about their wedding or a specific career or just living a lovely life. I dreamed about being a mom. I used to tell myself that if I didn’t find a partner by the time I turned 35, I’d either get a sperm donor and do it myself or adopt.

That’s how much I wanted to be a mom. My nieces and nephew and my friends’ kids are the light of my life. The day my nephew was born was, bar none, the best day of my life. He not only made me an auntie, he gave me a newfound purpose that has stayed with me ever since.

Luckily, I found my person when I turned 25 and we have built a life made for storybooks — full of love and quiet adventures.

Last spring, after much discussion and plenty of anxiety, we decided to bring my dream to life and began trying for a child of our own. And it worked. We got pregnant after a month and I was elated. This was it. This was what I had been dreaming and preparing for.

A week before my 30th birthday, I started bleeding. While my husband and I sat in the hospital losing our first child, I told my friends I was pregnant and miscarrying all in one breath.

I was devastated. I had a crisis of faith. I cried. I fell to my knees and screamed. I mourned.

And then I got back on the horse. After a month, we were given the go-ahead to try again. And again we got pregnant. Huzzah! Hurray! Rainbow baby!

And a few weeks later, the bleeding began once more.

This time, the physical pain was the most intense I have ever experienced. I would not wish the aches and blood loss of my second miscarriage on my worst enemy.

After that, I knew something had to be wrong.

I’d had uterine fibroids for a few years, but they had been growing and the doctors were fairly sure they were causing my fertility issues.

So earlier this year, I had those suckers removed — masses the size of apples and oranges — and I was overjoyed. (Remember in an earlier post I mentioned I was home for a week and learned to sew? That was because of this.)

I thought I was fixed. A few months later, I got back on the horse a third time.

This was supposed to be the time it worked. I was sure it would be. This time would be different. It had to be.

And it was.

My third pregnancy was my longest yet and my most symptomatic. I told friends, family, coworkers, the post office ladies, everyone. We picked out a color for the baby’s room. We bought a rocking chair and a bassinet.

My therapy sessions focused on how I wouldn’t let my own fears and past affect my relationship with my child or my growing family unit.

We heard the heartbeat. It was surreal. I stared in awe at the screen as my doctor outlined the size of our baby and told us everything looked great.

I journaled every single detail and wrote secret blog posts I planned to publish when the time was right.

We gave our baby a nickname: Strawberry. Each week, they grew into the size of a new fruit. Of all the fruits, Strawberry was my favorite.

I planned a maternity photoshoot. It was going to be at the beach at sunset. I had the Pinterest board inspiration on lock. I designated a friend to plan my baby shower for the perfect weekend when I’d be showing but not so round that I’d be miserable.

I did everything I was supposed to. Ate the right foods. Abstained from the wrong things. Everything was going well.

Until it wasn’t.

At the 12-week ultrasound, there was no heartbeat. Our baby was measuring too small.

And in the cruelest, most gut-punching twist of fate, I still felt pregnant. I wasn’t bleeding. I was nauseous. My dog loved snuggling with my belly, something she had only done with my past pregnancies.

I was so angry and so sad. I felt alone and scared. Betrayed by my own body for the third time.

How could this happen again? I did everything they tell you to do. I was reading What to Expect. We had the ultrasound photo saved on every device and sent to every relative.

And yet, like a sandcastle at high tide, it all came crumbling down again.

But my sob story isn’t the title of this blog post. So what have I learned?

I am stronger than even I think I am.

Three traumatic events like this, while still living and working and trying to be as human as I can, was rough. But I made it through. I had help from my village of loved ones but I’m still here. Sometimes struggling. Sometimes laughing through the pain. Sometimes genuinely okay and happy. Sometimes making some of the darkest jokes you can imagine. All of that is an accomplishment and I’m proud of myself. I am here.

As much as I want to stick my head in the sand, pushing off pain is not conducive to healing.

The third loss happened over a month ago. I told everyone I was “fine” for weeks. I wasn’t. My therapist helped me understand this isn’t something I can just get over with time. Emotions have to be processed. Tears shed. Diary and blog entries like this written. None of this is linear. But no matter what, I can’t keep pushing it off — it will eat me alive until I have a breakdown of epic proportions.

I don’t know what the future holds and that’s okay.

I would love to end this by saying I’m pregnant now with our little miracle baby and everything is fine. I’d love to say we know what happened and why our little ones didn’t stay. But I can’t. And that’s okay. Bunny and I are taking the steps to figure out what’s going on and from there we will decide what our future looks like.

No matter what you, reader, are going through, know that you are not alone. This is not an easy thing, living. It’s rough and messy and there isn’t always closure right away when something bad happens. But you and I are here. And sometimes, that’s the best outcome.