When I turned 35, I briefly entertained the idea of getting pregnant again. The memories of first flutters and baby showers danced in my head. At the store, my eyes fell on adorable onesies and ultrasoft plushies. I yearned for those early new-mom moments, playing peekaboo during diaper changes, rocking a baby to sleep in my arms, sniffing that intoxicating newborn aroma.
But then I remembered that was only one sliver of what pregnancy and new motherhood were like for me. In my first pregnancy, at 27, everything that could go wrong did.
Early on I had two bouts of unexplained vaginal bleeding. Medically, these frightening episodes are referred to as “threatened abortions.” They both occurred while I was at work, and because I had to leave my post for the E.R., I was subsequently fired. Losing my job meant not only losing my income, but also my health insurance. At a time when I was already terrified of losing my baby, my now-former employer only made my fears worse.
Still, my boyfriend and I got married, then moved into a new apartment with room for a nursery, and assumed our happy little family might yet work out. Months later, though, I would go into preterm labor and give birth to my baby girl. Margaret Hope was only 22 weeks, tiny and fragile, and weighing just under a pound. Eight hours later, she was gone. I never even got to see her face while she was alive.
For months afterward I tried to make sense of the tragedy, and did everything I could to survive it.
The following year I was pregnant again. This time, however, I was going into it with a head and heart full of trauma. We were living at my parent’s house with no room for a nursery — we’d lost our previous apartment because trauma and grief make it hard to earn a living. And now my obstetric paperwork had a new label for me: High Risk.
Being high risk means doctors generally pay closer attention to you and your fetus, but it also mars the experience of growing a human. It often means: You’ve been through something difficult, something terrible. Or worse, you might go through it all over again.
This second pregnancy was even more stressful and highly monitored than the first: I had weekly transvaginal ultrasounds to measure my cervix, and was placed on pelvic rest at three months (meaning not only no sex, but no orgasms either). I had to have weekly progesterone shots, and at 21 weeks, I had an emergency cerclage (which involves placing a single suture through the cervix to tighten it or keep it from opening well before due date). But luckily, there was a rainbow at the end of it all, and that rainbow was born at 40 weeks and 2 days, weighing just over nine pounds. My husband immediately placed him on my chest, and this time, my baby and I looked into each other’s eyes. It was wild.
But having my rainbow baby doesn’t negate everything I often feel I was robbed of. Between prenatal depression and unresolved PTSD, I could never just fully relax into being pregnant.
That bliss you feel when you simply don’t know about all the horrible things that could go wrong? I never felt it. Those cute pregnancy announcements that people put on social media? I was terrified to tell a soul about my second pregnancy, because that would mean I had to admit to myself that I was pregnant, and that no matter how many doctors took care of me there was the potential for another loss.
I refused to buy any baby items until my son made it past the 22-week mark. I knew that with every week he stayed put, his odds of survival increased. It took even longer for me to finally allow anyone to begin planning my baby shower. I wouldn’t refer to my pregnancy as anything other than “the fetus” for months. Stay detached, and there’s less risk of getting hurt, right?
Since then, I’ve had so many friends who have experienced mostly “easy” pregnancies and gone on to have healthy babies. Some of them have had a few difficulties, admittedly, but they didn’t seem to live under the same cloud of trauma and grief that I did for so long. Instead, they seemed to mostly worry about nursery color schemes or having less time for friends, and what it would be like to travel with a baby. I’m happy for these friends, who were mostly able to enjoy being pregnant, and who are fortunate enough to not know the sensation of leaving a maternity ward without a baby in their arms. But truthfully, I’m also incredibly jealous.
The thing is, though, that over the years I’ve come to find I’m not alone in feeling this way. After my loss, I went on to find an amazing community of fellow “loss moms” who expressed similar emotions. Those who were early in their grief couldn’t so much as stand the sight of a baby or pregnant person; many expressed frustration at having to listen to a pregnant friend talk about her prenatal yoga classes or stretch marks. The common thread between us was the knowledge that life can sometimes be inexplicably cruel.
“The question of ‘why my pregnancy, my delivery’ can cause a sense of powerlessness and anger,” said Carly Snyder, M.D., a reproductive and perinatal psychiatrist.
According to Dr. Snyder, one recent study looking at first-time mothers cites that postpartum PTSD affects 13 percent of individuals just after delivery, and up to 14 percent after six months postpartum. The New York City-based psychiatrist also states that this form of PTSD is usually exhibited alongside other mood disorders, such as generalized anxiety disorder and panic disorder. Furthermore, prior trauma, social isolation and antenatal anxiety are risk factors for developing PTSD after a traumatic birth experience.
“Postpartum PTSD is most often derived from a real or perceived trauma during delivery,” said Dr. Snyder. That means that even if the delivery went clinically well, if the parent believes it didn’t, or if they felt or experienced personal trauma, they may still develop PTSD. And if there were actual obstetric complications (such as perineal tearing), the odds of developing PTSD increase tenfold.
After these experiences, is it any wonder so many of us would decide not to go through pregnancy all over again?
The loss of joy and wonder as a pregnant woman is a bit like losing your faith in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, in magic, or in God. Knowing what’s potentially behind the curtain changes something in you. Loss and high-risk pregnancies do that, except many of us don’t talk about it; we don’t want to seem like jerks. Who wants to hurt a pregnant person’s feelings, especially when they’re so happy and excited about what hopefully lies ahead? (And we are excited for you, truly.)
Instead, we vent to one another. We cry and scream; some of us seek outside help. (Dr. Snyder said PTSD is especially treatable via SSRIs and reframing therapies like CBT, cognitive behavioral therapy, and EMDR, eye movement desensitization and reprocessing.) And over time, we begin to heal. The weeks and months and years pass, and eventually, we can start to enjoy seeing your ultrasounds, attending your baby showers, going maternity shopping with you, meeting and holding your babies. Some days are harder than others, of course. Some days we’re sad that our bodies don’t always cooperate while growing humans. Some days, our jealousy is hard to hide.
But when I got the news that one of my best friends finally had her baby after trying to get pregnant for so long, and that the delivery went without a hitch, I didn’t fall back into those feelings. Instead, I smiled and texted: “I’m so happy for you! Send me pictures!”
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I’m Jealous of the ‘Easy’ Pregnancy I Never Had - The New York Times
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