Current reflections on trauma (our fertility story)

Sitting down to write this is not easy. It’s like exposing an old wound that never fully healed. October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It also happens to be the due month for our rainbow baby - the little miracle coming to us after losses. It feels like a strange confluence of events and emotions. But, isn’t that the thing about trauma? It never takes place in a vacuum. It’s a single moment or a period of time in the middle of everything else in your life. And when it has passed, it leaves a mark that doesn’t stand alone, but rather overlaps with all the other impactful instances of your story.

My intention with this post is to share a bit about our pregnancy losses and articulate how I’ve been processing the trauma. As I continue to educate myself (by reading “The body keeps the score” by Bessel Van Der Kolk, for example), I plan to share my understanding of the scientific basis for trauma processing and integration. But, first things first. Our abbreviated story.

When our son turned 2, we were ready (well, ready enough) to expand our family. After 4 months of nothing happening, I started acupuncture for fertility. After 2 more months, we started testing. Blood work was totally normal, but an HSG x-ray revealed that I likely had a uterine polyp and a blocked tube. I had surgery to remove both and after a 3-month recovery period, we were hopeful that the problem was solved. This was now January 2020, 15 months since ‘Project Expand our Family’ began. In an effort to plan ahead, we met with a Reproductive Endocrinologist (R.E.) to discuss our options should a few more months of trying not work. Then the pandemic began and everything shut down, including fertility clinics. The timing was fine for us, since we weren’t ready for IVF quite yet. It also allowed us to move through all of this without any pressure to share it with anyone outside of our immediate family and a few close friends. In June 2020, however, I still wasn’t pregnant and after a lot of contemplating and discussing, we were ready to begin treatment. I began oral medications, hormone patches, and injections to prep for the egg retrieval, which went really well. We ended up with 6 healthy and normal embryos after genetic testing. 6 chances for another baby. We were hopeful.

The first embryo transfer went beautifully and after a brutal 8 day wait, we found out I was pregnant. The hcg level was a tad low, but nothing crazy. A few days later, another blood test revealed that my hcg went up just enough. We were still in the game. And then, a few days after that, the hcg level went way up! This was it. We all felt it. I went in for an early ultrasound at 5.5 weeks and growth was measuring a tad behind, but that wasn’t unusual considering the slow start. We were cautiously optimistic. But a week later, on September 17, 2020, I went alone to the clinic (Covid restrictions). I was already feeling nauseous and I said to one of the nurses as I passed her in the hallway, “this would be a cruel joke if the embryo’s not growing!” 

OK, I’m going to pause here. I’m starting to feel a lot of physical discomfort and the words have stopped flowing. My eyes are burning as tears are forming. My lungs feel constricted (which they are, due to said rainbow baby - but it feels more intense right now). This is trauma. It’s stored in the body. I don’t yet know the exact neural circuitry involved, but to start, my amygdala and hippocampus are certainly activated. 

I need a break. Stay right there and I’ll be back in a bit.

[Daya leaned into the physiological discomfort for a while. And then, she got the intuitive hit to move. She got up from her desk, went for a walk around the neighborhood, listened to the same healing music she listened to during her post-miscarriage beach walks, and walked back into her office refreshed].

Alright, let’s resume . . . 

The ultrasound tech began scanning, and grew very quiet. Something wasn’t right. I had heard so many horror stories of techs or doctors going silent and then speaking again with terrible news. I braced myself as she said “I don’t see a heartbeat.” In that moment, the R.E. came in and saw a flicker. 

She said, “Is that Daya or the embryo?”

“It’s Daya’s heart beat”, said the tech.

They looked a bit more, re-docked the ultrasound wand, and the tech left. 

I started sobbing. Uncontrollable sobbing. My R.E. asked if she could hug me (again, Covid). I nodded. Masked and breaking protocol, she hugged me. I needed that.

I eventually left the clinic and called Andrew while sitting in the car. Our world stopped. We were in shock and disbelief. I FaceTimed with my parents who held such beautiful space for me - and managed to bring in a bit of hope, which I really appreciated in that moment. I then texted our nanny and asked her to keep Cayson in the other room when I got home, so that I could process a bit more. Note: There were future devastating calls that I received while I was with Cayson. He saw me break down and he saw me hurting - and I think that’s important. But, that’s another topic for another day.

The day before my birthday, I went in for a D&C alone. Damn Covid. I’d leave the hospital no longer pregnant, even though the embryo was no longer viable days before. After the D&C, I actually felt more peaceful than I anticipated. I suppose it felt like closure. Trauma is strange.

We eventually found out that although this embryo tested normal, it, in fact, was not. This happens 1-2% of the time. We were on the wrong side of statistics yet again. Although we were sad, we were also optimistic. My body responded pretty well to the medications, it was able to support the growth of an embryo, and the only thing wrong was a duplication in half of one chromosome. We’ll try again and it’ll work. 

Unfortunately, we went on to have 2 more losses. One was a chemical pregnancy, which required a second D&C, and one was a failed transfer. Each one was a devastating blow. Each one cut deeper. Each one was a reminder of how badly we wanted this. Finally, the fourth transfer worked. This chapter is not yet complete. I won’t fully exhale until our baby boy is here. But one thing I know is that while I will not be defined by our trauma, I will honor it. I will thank it for what it’s taught me and for how it has helped me to grow. 

The traumatic moments of loss resurfaced the most during the first 20 weeks of this pregnancy. The memories caused crippling anxiety, but I knew it wouldn’t last. I focused on what I could control and treated myself with grace. I found that when I gave space for the trauma, it took up less space. There’s a helpful image that illustrates our relationship with trauma over time. Initially, it takes up a heck of a lot of space. It’s all you can think about. It’s represented by a giant ball surrounded by a slightly bigger circle. Over time, however, other meaningful moments start to take up space around that giant ball. This effectively shrinks the magnitude of the trauma. The giant ball becomes a smaller ball and you’re no longer consumed by it.

The “ball of trauma” never disappears, but it certainly takes up less space. Perhaps it also becomes more connected to other aspects of our life. Perhaps we’re able to extract meaning from it. Perhaps healing is the result of the trauma becoming integrated with our entire being. Perhaps we reflect on the traumatic events with more objectivity and less attachment. Perhaps as we grow, the trauma serves us in ways we never could have imagined. Perhaps.