False Hope & Ambiguous Loss

Ambiguous loss is a loss that occurs without a significant likelihood of reaching emotional closure or a clear understanding. This kind of loss leaves a person searching for answers, and thus complicates and delays the process of grieving, and often results in unresolved grief.

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A miracle. That’s what it felt like in every sense of the word. After years of negative tests, a miscarriage, and three failed IUI’s, it finally happened…I WAS PREGNANT, and with no medical intervention. It was July 2022, and it finally felt like things were falling into place. But what I couldn’t have known then was that it was actually all about to come crashing down.

We hadn’t told anyone yet. When you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, you’re incredibly cautious about what and how much you share—even with close friends and family. Plus I wanted to plan some sort of special reveal for our people who have been on this journey with us since day one. So here I was on this fun trip with my sisters and mom—our first-ever girls trip with just the four of us—to see the Mean Girls musical tour in Atlanta, and it started…the bleeding. It was so minor that I convinced myself that it was normal (which it definitely is) and that everything was fine. I was fine. The baby was fine. But after 3 days of it getting worse and worse, I knew that feeling all too well—it was gone.

I tearfully called my OBGYN to cancel my 8-week appointment and began the grieving process yet again. But after a few weeks, the bleeding hadn’t stopped. After calling my OB twice (once after 3 weeks of bleeding and again after 4 weeks) to let them know what was going on and them suggesting (to my shock and, tbh, horror) that I make an appointment with my general practitioner, go to an urgent care/ER, or they could see me in late October (mind you, this is mid-August now) and me screaming at the receptionist, “I’ll be dead by then!”…I decided to reach out to my fertility clinic. And thank god I did…

They were able to get me in immediately and confirmed my greatest fear—the miscarriage had become an ectopic pregnancy. Living in literally the worst state to have a baby with an atrocious abortion ban and coming just off the heels of the overturning of Roe v. Wade, I was understandably terrified. This baby that I had dreamt of and prayed for and paid exorbitant amounts of money to bring to life was no longer viable, and it was killing me. Thankfully, my clinic is run by a team of absolute saints who were able to get me the medication and care I needed to get through this, and I fully understand the level of privilege it takes to say that. But it wasn’t an easy road. The medication I was given—a type of chemotherapy—wreaked havoc on my body, and I spent almost an entire month in a level of pain I cannot begin to describe. I had to cancel my birthday party, spent the majority of our much-anticipated vacation to Florida crying in the fetal position counting the seconds til I could take my next pain pill, and barely managed to make it through one of my best friend’s bachelorette trip that I had been looking forward to for months. Compounding the physical pain with the emotional pain was almost too much to bare. One night the pain had gotten so bad that I looked at my husband and calmly said, “I think you’re going to have to take me to the ER.” Then a few minutes later, I felt something move through the left side of my abdomen, a sharp pain, and then…nothing. The pain was gone, and the level of relief I felt at that moment was immeasurable. But in the back of my mind, logically, I knew that this wasn’t good. So the next day, to the clinic I went…bracing myself for more bad news…

At first there was so much distortion on my scan, the nurses couldn’t figure out what had actually happened. Was it my ovary? A fallopian tube? I would need more tests and scans to confirm what damage had been done. Fortunately, it was determined that it was likely a follicle that had ruptured, which wasn’t great, but it was certainly nowhere near the worst-case scenario…and for that I was grateful. My body would need time to heal, and it would take right at three months from the beginning of this fiasco for that to happen. And in the midst of the nightmare that had fully consumed me during these three months, the company that I had worked for for nine years terminated me. But that’s another story for another time…

Once the physical healing was complete, it was time to start the emotional restoration. And it was around this time that I started listening to a podcast called Race to 35 (shout-out to my #1, Kate, for the perfect recommendation) wherein one of the episodes they talk with psychotherapist Esther Perel about the notion of ambiguous loss. Although I had never heard of this term before, I had absolutely experienced it. It’s an odd thing to grieve something intangible—it’s like missing someone you’ve never met and will never meet. But I believe it’s like I’ve said before, you're not just grieving this lost embryo…you're mourning the nursery you had already decorated in your head, the joy on your parents' faces after telling them they're going to be grandparents, the life that will never be.

Even though listening to and participating in discussions surrounding this topic won’t alleviate all of the pain that’s been endured, it has been helpful to assign a name to the feelings I have been experiencing not just through this incident but throughout our entire fertility journey, because I fully believe that you cannot repair something until you identify and name it. And despite this major setback, I choose to remain hopeful. If you are also traversing this path that is infertility, please allow yourself the space and grace to feel all the hard, awful, and (at times) overwhelming feelings, but in the end…I hope you, too, choose hope. Because the only thing I know to be truer than this road being rocky and unpredictable and weathering is that in the end it will all be so, so worth it.

The Breaking Point

“2020 has been my best and most favorite year yet!”

— No one, EVER

I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that 2020 has been an absolute dumpster fire for most of us—I know it certainly has been for me.

Even putting aside my own personal issues, it feels like each day is worse than the one before. It's like as soon as we catch our breath from one catastrophe, another one comes along and knocks the wind right back out of us. I think that's part of what has made this year so hard—the relentlessness of it all. We have far surpassed #thestruggleisreal and seem to have advanced to a level I'm now referring to as #SWEETBABYJESUSWHENWILLTHISNIGHTMAREEND. I've had several people over the past few months ask me, "How do you do it? How are you keeping it together?!" The truth is...I'm not. I've had bouts of anxiety-induced sleep paralysis. I've had days where I hardly moved from one spot. I've cried and cursed more this year than I have the past five years combined—and for anyone who knows me, you know that's saying something. Real talk: when I got the news of RBG's passing, I legitimately laid on my living room floor for three hours and sobbed. A tad dramatic? Sure. But that's because—unbeknownst to me—I was just about to arrive to this week's final destination...my breaking point.

As most of you know, I co-host a weekly show called Alabama Politics This Week. On the show, we obviously discuss topics involving politics and current events, which you can imagine in this god-forsaken year has been an absolute treat. Normally I'm able to keep it together through the hour'ish it takes to film the show. But yesterday...yesterday was the first day where the topics we discussed fully triggered my (already elevated) anxiety. Thinking and talking about the loss of RBG and Breonna Taylor and 200,000+ Americans dead from COVID and the pure chaos that will undoubtedly ensue in November and the wannabe-dictator megalomaniac in the White House just...honestly broke me. It was as if each thought was causing a small spark inside my brain and I could feel myself imploding right there in slow motion and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I had finally succumbed to the weight of everything that 2020 had thrown my way and just let is wash over me like a tidal wave. But also like a tidal wave, that initial sense of drowning was immediately followed by a sense of calm. And I realized that—just like you—I'm still here.

So whether you're angry, cynical, frustrated, somber, scared, or any combination of those things, that's okay. We are all in survival mode at this point and sometimes just getting through the day is a victory. So if you've made it through this day and you're reading this right now, please let me be the first to remind you that YOU ARE DOING A FUCKING GREAT JOB.

And if you need to, take break. Feel those feelings. Take care of yourself. But then come back. Because we have to keep pushing forward. We have to keep fighting the good fight. There's too much at stake to give up now.

I always want to be honest and transparent here. Most days are tough, and nine times out of ten I'm driving the Hot Mess Express. So I promise you are not alone in your feelings, whatever they may be. It's crazy out there, and we still have three more months of this shitshow of a year. But we will make it through. So far we've survived 100% of our worst days...and I like those odds.