Miracles, Miscarriage, and Moving On:

A Personal Story

It took me forever to get pregnant with my daughter, Bailey. Well, maybe not forever. It was more like two-and-a-half years, but it was longer than I had anticipated. After month after month of negative pregnancy tests, I finally got a positive result in March of 2011. My pregnancy was healthy and routine and pretty uneventful. In December of 2011, I gave birth to my beautiful Bailey girl.

I had always wanted at least two kids. I also knew that I wanted to wait at least 3-4 years before trying for another baby. When our daughter turned three, we were finally ready to start trying to get pregnant again. I was 32 years old.

I should have known that getting pregnant again wouldn’t be easy because it hadn’t been so easy the first time around.

Again, month after month I continued to take pregnancy tests, and each and every month it was negative. This continued for the next three years.

I tried everything I could to naturally help myself get pregnant. I lost weight by eating right and exercising. I took my prenatal vitamins religiously. I also took my iron pill, which helped me with my energy levels. I tried to lessen my stress. I saw my doctor to get checked out. I felt good and healthy.

Finally, on the morning of January 22, 2017, I took a pregnancy test, and it was positive! The joy I felt was indescribable. I had waited and waited for this day for three years. 156 weeks. 1,095 days.

It was a Sunday, and my husband and daughter were still asleep. I went into the bedroom and woke up my husband in much the same way I woke him up when I told him about my first pregnancy. As one might imagine, he was excited, too.

We didn’t have to wait too long before our daughter woke up. Perhaps most people would have held out telling their child so soon; however, there was never a doubt in my mind that anything would go wrong with this pregnancy. After all, the first one went so well. So, we sat Bailey down and told her the exciting news.

The rest of the day was a blur. We called our families to share the news. I found myself looking over at my husband and smiling so big, sharing a secret knowledge of all the good to come. We made lists of baby names and talked about our future as a family of four. I calculated my due date. It would be another fall baby for the Manesses!

Thinking back now, I find it funny that I spent my whole first pregnancy worrying that something would happen to the baby.

I kept thinking that I would go to a doctor’s appointment one day, and I would hear those awful words, “There’s no heartbeat.” After all, I’ve had family and friends before me who had heard similar news. Why should my pregnancy be any different?

Thankfully, I never had to hear those vile words, though I continued to worry about it constantly. When I found out I was pregnant for the second time, it honestly never occurred to me that this pregnancy might be different than my first.

The morning after the positive result, I called my OBGYN and made an appointment for the following Monday to officially confirm my pregnancy. By the middle of the week, I had also told my employer. We were already talking about plans for the next school year, so it felt like the right time to tell her.

The following Friday morning, I started bleeding, and I just knew it. There I was, surrounded by other people’s children, and I was losing mine.

I bled so much my employer sent me home. I called my OBGYN, and she told me to go to the clinic near me to take a blood test. I waited and waited and waited for them to draw blood. Then, I went back home and waited some more. I got a call from my doctor’s office telling me that my levels were low, but still in the “pregnancy” range.

For a moment, there was a small spark of hope. Hope that maybe this wasn’t the end. But, throughout the weekend, I continued to bleed. It was easily the longest and worst weekend ever.

On the next Monday, I went back to the clinic for a follow up blood test. And, again, I waited and waited and waited. When I finally got the call, I wasn’t surprised, but I was heartbroken. My levels were no longer in the “pregnancy” range.

I was no longer pregnant.

I had lost my baby. Our baby. Bailey’s brother or sister was gone. Our future family of four no longer existed. There wouldn’t be a heartbeat. There wouldn’t be a first sonogram. There wouldn’t be morning sickness or pregnancy cravings. There wouldn’t be food aversions. There wouldn’t be a new baby at the next Christmas celebration. There wouldn’t be a first birthday or first steps. There wouldn’t be a first day of school or a high school graduation. In that moment, my life and my future as I knew it was changed forever.

In the days, weeks, months, and year that followed, we tried again and again. To this day, we still haven’t been successful in getting pregnant. At this point it probably will never happen, and I’m trying to come to terms with it. Some days I am okay. Other days I am absolutely not. Some days I am happy. Other days I am utterly morose.

I wrestle with the “why mes”. I look around me, and I see pregnant women everywhere…or so it seems.

To be truthful, I’m jealous of them–the friends and family that have had successful pregnancies in the absence of my own. It’s the strangest juxtaposition–on one hand being so incredibly happy for someone’s good fortune while hiding a searing pain that another person’s good news is not my own.

I try to rise above it as much as I can, but I struggle every day. The only thing that truly helps is when I look at my Bailey girl–when I watch her read a book or play with friends or make a sweet card. When she looks over at me, grabs my arm, and says, I love you, Mama, and I am reminded of my own good fortune.

If I can only have one miracle in my life, I am grateful it is her.