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.

---

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.

Down for the Count

“…everything looks great…but…”

Here it was. The phone call I had been fearing for so long. Up until this point every scan, ultrasound, blood panel, and test had all come back with positive results…and yet every pregnancy test I took continued to come back negative. It didn’t make sense. You can only be told, “Everything looks great…that’s what we want to see…you’re exactly where we want to be at…” so many times until your stress and anxiety turn into frustration. If everything appears “as it should”, then why isn’t it happening? Then the phone call came…

I could immediately tell by the nurse’s tone that the news wasn’t good—you know, that tone where someone is trying to overcompensate by sounding almost too positive. She said, “Well, we got your bloodwork back, and your levels are good, your thyroid is good, and really everything looks great…but…” I held my breath and braced for the impact. “…we would ideally want your AMH number to be around 1.5 or above…and well…yours is a 0.48.” My heart instantly sank in my chest, and I could feel the tears burning in the corners of my eyes. What the nurse had just told me was my greatest fear—in layman’s terms, my ovarian reserve (egg supply) was significantly diminished. I struggled to hear what she said next…a mix of encouraging words and next steps, I think. I somehow managed to hold it together through the rest of the call, politely thanked her, and then upon hanging up proceeded to enter a full. on. breakdown.

I am someone who admittedly cries often—I cry when I’m sad…when I’m mad…when I’m frustrated… even when I’m happy—and I don’t know that I’ve ever wailed like I did in that moment. It was a validation of my anxiety, the actual manifestation of my greatest fear. After suffering my first miscarriage almost two years ago, those dark (and at the time unfounded) thoughts I had held in the back of my mind since I was a teenager that I would never be able to have children definitely began to fester, but this news felt like confirmation. And compounded with the fact that I just celebrated my 35th birthday, it felt like my window of opportunity for motherhood was shrinking by the second.

But (as my nurses and therapist continue to remind me) it is not hopeless. It may take more meds and tests and procedures and medical intervention, but there is still a chance. And in the throes of the depression and despair that this recent news has caused, that’s what I’m choosing to cling to. I have to. I’ve also realized that part of what I’m feeling is grief—mourning the life I had envisioned for myself…a life that included a “normal” conception and pregnancy…a life where I would possibly even have baby #2 by now. But as that is clearly not the path we were destined for, I am taking heart in the encouraging words of my family and friends—some of whom have fought similar battles—and the confidence of my nurses and doctors.

So, I may be down for the count, but I am most certainly not out. Not yet…