In Between

When do you give up? When is it OK to say that enough is enough? When do you finally throw in the towel and say that it just isn't worth it anymore? It's not worth the pain, the frustration, the embarrassment, or the mental exhaustion that pregnancy and loss brings. Hopelessness sets in, and it seems the only true escape from it is to succumb to it.

After reoccurring miscarriages, the roller coaster of hopelessness can be a reoccurring event as well. Every pregnancy, one gets on the roller coaster. The ride starts and it's an uphill climb. Everyday you remain pregnant, you carry the hope that this pregnancy will be the one that sticks. This pregnancy will be the baby that will be cradled in your arms. As the miscarriage occurs, the plunge into hopelessness comes with all the stomach wrenching twists and turns one could take. It's a never--ending ride.

Recently, I've discovered a new gut-wrenching twist in the world of hopelessness. There is an in between when it comes to pregnancy and loss. In between the last loss, and hopelessness, and the next pregnancy, and hope, is a world of tests and specialists. Specialists are the people who are going to have the ideas to help solve the mystery of your loss. The tests are going to provide answers across sets of data. So many women have success after running a few tests. Many women get answers from specialists to help them create their next child. Surely, you too will be one of the lucky ones... Until, you're not.

You sit in an office room, meeting nurse after resident, all of which are under the assumption that you are currently pregnant. You repeat it multiple times that you have recently lost, and you've been sent here for a consultation. The doctor comes in, clearly confused as to why this conversation is occurring. He tells you he has looked at all your recent paperwork and really doesn't see anything stand out. He also makes sure that he covers himself and lets you know that you really have about a 50/50 shot at carrying full term because there are no guarantees that they will find anything. He tells you to lower your stress level, and maybe wait another year.

Hopelessness sets in. The facts are overwhelming. The truth hurts. There may not be a baby at the end of this road.

You move on to your next appointment, which you conveniently scheduled the same day. You felt that by doing them in the same day you would be saving time off and getting at least some bit of good news as the roller coaster twists and turns trying to achieve pregnancy. So you head to radiology imaging. The doctor's suggested mapping your uterus. This sounds like a great idea. It would finally rule out or maybe, hopefully, identify the problem of recurrent loss.

You check in. You change your clothes. You think about how weird it is to be wearing hospital gowns and scrubs that others have worn repeatedly before you. You get called back. The nurse is nice and the doctors are young. They talk to you about how successful the imaging can be at finding out anything that could be wrong. There is no mention of the fact that there will be time spent down below your waist in order to do this. At this point, it's par for the course. Babies usually only come from one place. Once in, the doctor promises it will be quick.

As the routine test is being done, time continues to drag on. You get the feeling things aren't going the way that they should. You hold your breath and count circles on the ceiling as things are shifted and moved in order to "get a better look". You chat casually with the nurse, while the doctor continues to dig, poke and prod, and she reassures you that these doctors are the best. It's very rare they can't get a picture.

The doctor tells you that they will do everything, but he just can't get it. He goes out, and returns with a second doctor. The conversation is casual. The atmosphere as comfortable as it could get in the situation. You brain begins to register that this is not routine. Hopelessness begins to set in. You begin to pray that between the two doctors that it will work. That this won't be the morning of no answers. That something, anything, good will come out of it.

You hold back tears as the second doctor shakes his head. Words like "posterior cervix" and "slightly tipped" are explained to you. They can try to call your OB. They can see if someone can come help. However, if not. If someone can't come, then there is no test.

The room empties to discuss options behind closed doors. You lay on a table, covered for decency purposes, but feeling extremely exposed. On the table was hope. The machines that surround you were going to give answers. Now you're alone waiting for the answer that you already know will come. You sounded hopeful to the doctors. The OB would come, they'd find a way to do the test, it would be ok. But hopelessness is taking over, and you fight back tears. The test is not going to be done today. You question why are you even doing this? Why are you putting yourself through this? Alone, exposed, vulnerable, and hurting.

It's time to give up. Stop the pain.

And then, the nurse comes in. She stands next to you. She comes to talk to help you not feel alone. You talk about her new granddaughter and her other grandchildren. She makes you smile. And somewhere, deep inside, you find the words to put the entire morning, the entire ordeal, all of it, into perspective.

"You know, I hope my next child appreciates all the work I'm going through to have him!"

Hope out of hopelessness. It was just a sentence, yet it pulled me out of the suffocating, overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. The love I have for my child. The child I haven't even thought of conceiving yet, is what makes every single minute of the morning worthwhile. The love that I have for my future child is overwhelming.

I still cried as I returned to work that morning. I still struggle to fight the hopelessness that consumes me at a variety of times. A baby shower, a pregnant friend, a date on the calendar. I fight, in between the hopelessness of loss, and holding on to hope of what could be.

And in between is the love for a child that I haven't even met yet.

I can't give up.