Rainbow and Roses

Hope

When I found out I was pregnant, I felt the rush of excitement was shooting from my head to my toes. We had been trying for a while, and I had miscarried last fall. I had turned 40 and feared it was too late for me.

I gave birth to my son 2 and a half years ago. While it had been the most chaotic, stressful and sleepless experience of my existence, it also took me by surprise. I didn’t know a love like his existed, and I couldn’t wait to experience it once again.

When I shared the news with my husband that morning, before my son woke, he was excited too. Eric is a little more reserved and cautious, but I could see the anticipation in his eyes.

We both knew we had more love to give another child.

There was so much hope filled in that morning, with that positive pregnancy test. When you are trying to conceive, and feel like maybe the candle has gone out, there is no better feeling. The world shines brighter just for you.

Other than having nausea every day and having to take care of my 2-year-old, everything was just as ordinary as my first pregnancy. We heard the baby’s heartbeat; we saw the baby on the ultrasound. She was perfect.

I was terrified of losing the baby, but with each week we made it a little bit farther; I was ecstatic when we made it to the second trimester.

The Storm

We were awaiting the gender test results when my midwife called me. I was confused because I told her I did not want to know the results over the phone. I wanted to do it secretively, with a cake and lots and lots family. It was a celebration!

I dashed for my phone and went outside, letting the screen door slam. “Hi, Jenny, how are you?” I asked her. Her voice hesitated.

“Alison, your baby has trisomy 18,” she said. “Do you know what that is?”

No, I did not, but at that moment I began to feel dizzy and had to sit down. I heard her mutter the words, “birth defect” and “likely to be stillborn.”

At that moment, my entire world collapsed. Everything I knew, everything I felt, no longer existed. All I heard was “there will be no baby.” I began to cry uncontrollably, sitting outside on the step of our gazebo I had spent so much time praying for our baby.

I pictured the shirt my son wore, announcing he was going to be a big brother. I pictured the tears in my mom’s eyes when she saw him. I pictured the party, where we told our neighbors there would be another little addition to our cul-de-sac.

I had pictured all the hours, all the minutes, I spent worrying that the baby was going to go away. Somehow the baby had survived, but I worried about what our new life would look like after a second loss. A much bigger one this time. 

The picture in my head of birthing and bringing our beautiful baby girl home, was gone. The vision of her big brother, Brooks, looking into her big, beautiful eyes, was gone. Instead, I saw nothing. No vision. This new path was cloudy and I had no idea where it led.  

“Is your husband home?” my midwife interrupted my thoughts.

“No, he’s coming home from work now,” I said. We hung up and I promised to call her later that night to discuss the next steps.

Praying for a miracle

The next couple of days were the hardest of my life. Suddenly, instead of planning a gender reveal party, I was asked to choose whether to have an abortion or not. 

I had always been pro-choice, but never thought it was a decision I would ever have to make. In my 20s I was terrified of getting pregnant. Now in my 40s, I wanted a baby so badly, there were very few circumstances that would justify termination of my baby’s life. Was this one of them?

I didn’t want the advice from anyone, so I kept the news of the trisomy a secret. My husband told me he would support me, no matter what I decided. Since we just started telling people, it was extremely difficult. I had to navigate who I would tell and how I would respond if someone had congratulated me on the baby. There were so many times people would hug me to congratulate me, and I would hold back silent tears. 

Luckily, my students didn’t ask me if I was pregnant – yet. But having to stand in front of a class and teach subordinating conjunctions when my heart was breaking or when I was anticipating a call from a doctor, was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. I couldn’t wait until a break in the day so I could go for a walk and fall apart.

I held onto the only hope that I had: that the genetic test was wrong and everything would be ok.

I tried to keep my spirits up because I knew it was best for me and my baby, but it was so damn hard. One minute I would be at peace in a yoga class and the next minute I would fall apart in my car. 

The day before we went for the amniocentesis, we had a prayer circle with all my friends and family. It helped me stay focused, stay centered, and stay hopeful. 

The day of the procedure, I sat and looked at my little girl flip around on the ultrasound screen. Her tiny little fingers and toes were adorable. To me, she was perfect. How could God take away my perfect baby girl?

When the doctor came in, it was uncomfortably quiet, as she looked carefully at every inch of baby girl. Finally, she looked me in the eyes and said, “you are going to have many wonderful days ahead of you, but today is not one of them.”

She proceeded to confirm our baby had trisomy 18 and that the genetic test was correct. She showed us all the things that were wrong with our baby, including a strawberry shaped head, an abnormal heart, and clubfeet. It broke my heart to think our baby would never walk. 

But even after all that, I couldn’t help but think our baby girl was still perfect.

The next moments included a lot of questions about our options, which were all horrible. How did it come to this?

It was all so overwhelming. Sensing my despair, the doctor grabbed my hand. “This is not your fault.”

It was hard not to think it wasn’t my fault. Afterall, I had waited until I was 40 and I was the one who carried the baby. 

“You probably just found your husband later in life,” she continued. “I didn’t find my husband until I was in my 50s. I lived in San Francisco, and everyone thought I was a lesbian.”

My mind was spinning. In a matter of days, I went from thinking about baby names to wondering how much longer she will be here.

The decision

The days after this were torture. I knew the severity of the baby’s conditions, so I could start to think about my choice. I felt the pressure.

I didn’t dare tell anyone outside of my circle. I feared their opinions would become my own, and I knew I needed to make the decision on my own. I wanted my choice to be what was best for our family and our baby. 

I tried to listen to my intuition about what to do, but it was hard to quiet my mind. When I closed my eyes, I saw Eric, Brooks and I traveling to national parks in an RV, happy and content. But I also saw a little girl, in pigtails, watching Brooks play baseball, with a rainbow over her head. I could see my life go both ways, but I knew that little girl was not the same little girl as the one in my vision.

Every time I sat down to ask God what to do, it was so hard to hear because I got covered in my grief hurricane.

It did help to share what was happening, and express my feelings, to those I was closest with. Once I started opening those flood gates, it was so hard to shut them down to go about my day, trying to mother my child or go to work. The daily grind felt extra hard, especially in this new world. 

The final straw was when the doctor called to tell us a test result came back, revealing the baby had a severe spinal cord injury on top of everything else. This broke my heart because I could finally see the suffering she would endure. Was it fair to her? Was it fair to me?

I prayed the baby would make the decision for us.

And she finally did. The evening I went for my 17-week check up with my midwife she couldn’t find a heartbeat. The baby I once saw on the ultrasound screen fluttering around, was still, moving only with the momentum of my heartbeat.

We had lost her. While I was incredibly relieved that I did not have to make that choice, I grieved for my soulmate, now gone.

She no longer was close to me. She no longer lived inside my body. All the hope that could have been, was now gone. 

I started feeling shame. This familiar shame was present at the time of my previous miscarriage, and I started to blame myself for the baby’s death. The baby had trisomy, I thought logically. This is why the baby died, not because of anything I did or could have done differently. In my heart I know I can go on to have a perfectly healthy baby, just not this time. Even so, it was so easy to blame myself.

The Birth

I was scheduled to be induced and give birth to my beautiful baby girl within a week. I had no idea what to expect. I had given birth once before, but to my full-term baby boy. This was going to be different, and as much as I could not control a lot, it brought me a lot of comfort to imagine and prepare for the birth I had hoped for him.

I had purposely selected this hospital for their birthing suite, equipped with a tub and reserved for women who wanted to birth naturally.

I had started contracting the day before. We were ready. Once the nurse gave me the medicine to help induce labor, the contractions intensified, and I surrendered. She was born within 15 minutes.

The birth was very healing for me. We held our baby girl, who we named Rose Helen, after my gram and Eric’s gramma, who looked so little, pink and perfect. I gave birth the way that I had envisioned, and this brought me a new sense of peace in a difficult situation.

We went home hours later, and cuddled up to Brooks, who sat watching Bluey on the couch. He was wonderfully oblivious to what was happening, and I welcomed his world of toys, snacks and little boy belly laughs into mine.

Rainbows

I think about my beautiful baby Rose everyday, and whether we will get to meet her soul again in this lifetime. I think about the meaning of all of it, which I believe I will eventually come to understand.

I know we were meant to heal each other. I know she opened me up to speaking my truth and showing me how to love beyond our physical world.

It opened me up to the love that sounded me. The people, the support, the love between people I had no idea cared so much. The love between my husband and I deepened. I came to rely on my mother, for daily cry sessions, trusting her completely. I surrendered to help, from anyone and everyone, because their support truly helped heal.

I learned that even in excruciating painful circumstances, there’s always a rainbow.

Now, whenever I see a rainbow, I am reminded of the day we will meet our daughter once again.

~Alison Brechtel