After the Termination

Note: The below was written in real-time. It is now the end of January 2020.

October 28. Two months ago, after my "procedure," we went to see my gynecologist to make sure all was well. We asked him about trying again. He told us that since he knew we wanted another one, he'd say this: Normally he'd tell couples to wait three months to try again, but as I'm 41 and a half, I should take a month to recover and then come back pregnant. I smiled, glad he understood me and my wants, not really believing it could happen, but appreciating what I considered a blessing from him.

As I shared my experience with loss, I had many women (and even one or two guys) share their stories privately with me, thank me, and chat with me about their losses. More than a few women gave me blessings privately as we talked about things, but it always triggered a "yea, sure, that'd be nice." And even others told me that the period after a loss is the most fertile time (who knows why). I'm not really sure I believe that but it was a nice thought.

So we tried after my first real month "back." And I was sure that we missed the window (ovulation sticks and all), but the next morning when I peed on my ovulation stick, I saw I had been wrong - the stick was clearly positive. So we timed it well and then waited... and waited during that dreaded two weeks to see what would happen, if anything.

Toward the end of that two week period, there was one morning when I woke up ridiculously early, before everyone else, and my right hip was aching and hurting. For me, that's a distinct sign of pregnancy... it only happens when I'm pregnant and it only happens once at the very early stages. I thought to myself, there's no way.... So I didn't pee on a pregnancy stick even though I had an obscene amount ready at hand.

I waited a couple days, but the memory of the aching hip haunted me and my husband had a good feeling, even prior to me telling him about my hip. Normally I would only take a pregnancy test in the morning (first morning urine and all), but it was nagging me.

So two days before Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, in the afternoon of October 7th, I peed on a stick and laid it on the bathroom sink. And waited.

And waited a long couple minutes before I saw the faintest line ever.

But here's the thing. After years of researching, learning about pregnancy, and personal experience, I know that even an almost invisible line means positive. I was a little stunned, not really believing what I saw. I brought it out to my husband who was sitting on the couch watching television.

"Can I show you something?" I held up the stick.
"You peed on a stick?"
"I did."

He looked and said, "I see a line."
"Yea."

I sat down.
I didn't feel pregnant, but then again, my period wasn't even due for another day and a half. But I had no symptoms of any impending visitor (unlike last time, where the cramps went on forever), so it must be true.

Over the next day and a half, I peed on four more sticks, each one getting progressively darker. After Yom Kippur, I peed on the last stick. It was VERY CLEARLY two lines. Each time, I showed my husband. He was getting very, very excited about our rainbow baby while I seemed to only have anxiety.

** ** **
November 3. Well, jeez, today I thought about my previous pregnancy and I thought about this one; I thought I was doing fine. Then, this afternoon, a woman shared her new Facebook group (a Jewish women's support group for pregnancies after loss), explaining that it was needed because the new pregnancy is simply TERRIFYING. Out of nowhere (really?), I suddenly lost it. I was at the office, sitting at my desk, tearing up and crying.

That's when I realized she is absolutely right.

Ever since I found out I was pregnant, my husband has been excited and I have been terrified. I originally thought it was just nerves and anxiety, but it's so much more than that. This morning I was having slight cramping and started worrying again. In this pregnancy, everything has seemed normal (even unimpressive), but emotionally, NOTHING is normal about this pregnancy.

Last week, when I was about six weeks pregnant, we went in to the gynecologist. I thanked him for his blessing (he was confused, then amused), he scanned me and said everything looks good so far. We could see a yolk sac and such, but it was too early for a heartbeat (as expected). He instructed us to come back in two weeks to check the heartbeat and, on our way out, wished me good luck with a smile.

So now we're waiting another two weeks.

All the while, hubby has been really cute. He went out and got us snacks. Without thinking, he picked up a particular candy for us. Did he realize what he had gotten? No. But it's adorable.

This afternoon, I realized I was feeling weird all day but couldn't figure out why. I began freaking out a bit. I thought perhaps I was dehydrated - always possible - so I started drinking a 1.5L bottle of water. I was still edgy. But now, thinking more deeply about it... perhaps my anxiety is kicking in again about the pregnancy. Very very realistic. Very very likely.

See, in the last pregnancy, I had done everything perfectly, taken my prenatals, eliminated alcohol and raw fish (mostly), reduced my tuna intake, taken my folates, and then, for no reason whatsoever, my baby was sick. Very sick. And here's the worst part. With hydrops, there's no 'safe point.' There's no developmental period that you can mark as a milestone to know you're safe. Hydrops can develop for a plenitude of reasons - at 12 weeks, 24 weeks, 30-33 weeks, any point in between or later. THERE IS NO SAFE POINT. Talk about terrifying.

** ** **
November 12.  Today I'm eight weeks pregnant. Rainbow's eyes are now fusing shut so that they can develop and his/her tail is almost gone. Later this afternoon we are going into the gynecologist to check the baby's heartbeat. Am I nervous? Hell yes. But I keep breathing. What else can I do?

The Recovery: Feelings and Thoughts

Two months ago, on Wednesday, August 14th, I went through with a termination of pregnancy due to a poorly developed baby with hydrops fetalis. I'm not going to go over all the emotional turmoil of it, but I'll say this.

At first, I was devastated and depressed, but seeing babies and pregnant women helped me feel (slightly) better. I wished that, hopefully, at least they would be having healthy babies - at least one of us should, anyway. But as the weeks went by, I realized how difficult it was getting.

After 6-7 months of trying, when I got pregnant in June, I had gotten lucky - four friends and I were pregnant all at the same time! My sister, my friend RS, my coworker O, and my friend Cole! It was a party and great fun thinking of how our bumps would all get bigger at the same time and how we could compare pictures as we go through milestones of our little ones.

But then we hit that bump and lost ours. I became a ghost, a shell of a mom and wife for a month. I almost got fired from my job because of it. And to add insult to injury, I realized that everyone's bumps were getting bigger and cuter. Every single day, I saw my coworker's belly get bigger and I imagined my own baby the same size. My coworker can feel the movement of her baby, and I could imagine feeling that again. My friend RS is going for her anatomy scan soon and I would have as well. Only I'm not. My stomach is still flat and my uterus empty.

I've discovered it's not so easy to watch others get pregnant and stay pregnant when that's all you wanted, and what you had. Their babies will be born around the time mine was originally due. And I'm sure that week will be a tough one for me (the first week of February 2020). Should I do something special to commemorate him/her? I don't know. Maybe I'll take it one step at a time and feel and identify the emotions.

Some of them right now are jealousy. Hope. Unfairness. Depression. A little anger.

And then I think that if/when I do get pregnant again, I'm going to have anxiety about it. Oh yea. I used to think that pregnancy was a super chill, exciting time where you got to watch your fetus grow into a baby with little waving arms and bouncing legs. Though I always knew the risks, my free spirit regarding pregnancy has officially left - it died with my fourth baby. Nope. If/when I get pregnant again, I know what can go wrong, more than I ever had before (and I consider myself pretty well educated). And, of course, I'm "geriatric" now so that changes other numbers that we have to take into consideration.

But in the meantime, we keep trying and preparing for all the High Holidays. And if we're blessed this year, we're blessed. The odd thinking is that if/when I get pregnant, then I'd "know" (I laugh at that verb) why #4 didn't get to stay earthbound. Because we needed this next particular soul to be the one to join us.

I feel like going through this entire thing leads to all kinds of odd feelings. And they're all valid, odd feelings. So I guess I'll take one day at a time, two weeks at a time. Work on increasing my meditation, my breathing, more practice on self-healing and acceptance.

Conveniently perfect timing as we run into Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

On that note, may we all be sealed in the Book of Life for the coming year. May we be blessed with the things we need and the babies we desire. May we have family, success, and health, and nothing but good news and healthy children.

And on a less spiritual, but no less meaningful note - let's make 5780 our bitch. Light 'er up.

Learning to Let Go...

...and to breathe.

Yesterday was my beloved and my seventh year wedding anniversary and today is the sixth yarzheit (day of remembrance) for my mom - i.e. the anniversary of the day she died in the Hebrew calendar. And, shockingly, this is the calmest I've been in a while.

The end of August was painful - not nearly so as the middle, but I had a blood clot scare and job drama (not yet resolved, but looking good), and each morning I would count down the days until we were scheduled to go to the circus with our littles (on Friday the 30th). Once we made it to the circus, that pretty much meant I survived. Literally and figuratively. I had great belief that once August was over, things would be brighter.

It was sometime toward the end of the last week when my husband joined me in our room and told me that he realized we had NO mezuzot (scrolls) up on almost any of our doorways in our new apartment, and that we had not had any up all month. We moved in the beginning of August.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, there is a distinct and direct connection (whether superstitious or actual) between your health and your mezuzot. They are thought to act as protection over your residence and those within; they are the anti-thesis to evil and a guard over your home.

"The very purpose of mezuzot is the protection of the house and its inhabitants."

My husband is not the superstitious type (I am) so for that to come out of his mouth meant more than anything. We had had a crap-tastic month with no mezuzot. I was quiet and shocked and he immediately said, with great resolve, "I am going to find the mezuzot tomorrow and put all of them up. We need a better month."

And so he did.

Friday was Circus Day and we had a grand time. The kids requested cotton candy (it was larger than their heads) and sat there, astounded, eyes glued to the performance. Every so often, one of them would turn to us and say in their little voices, "What in the WORLD was that!?" It was magical and still brings a smile to my face.

Immediately after it ended, I realized my phone and wallet had dropped. It's still August, I thought, devastated, knowing that Shabbat was about thirty minutes away. Security couldn't find it. I couldn't find it (even with fifteen minutes of intense searching with a baby on my hip). My husband then went to find it and came back with it in hand. RELIEF!

We walked home quickly, lit candles, ate our Shabbat meal, put the kids to bed, said our gratefuls, one of which was celebrating the end to one of the worst months of our lives.

* * *

The next afternoon, after missing for at least six months, I found my engagement ring. Randomly, on the floor, laying and twinkling at me just inside a cabinet door, like the planet hadn't just shifted beneath my bare feet.

I blinked and gently picked it up. I turned it over. It wasn't my imagination - it truly was sitting in my hand, sparkling and reflecting more than seven years of love.

Over a month prior to moving, I had shared my worst fears with hubby, that my ring was lost forever. I was even ready to says the blessing for recovering lost items (like I said, superstitious), but my husband had faith it would turn up - even dreamed that it would be found before our anniversary.

And so it did! And, yes, I've been wearing it every day since.

Immediately after finding my ring, I jumped up, ran into our room, leaped onto the bed, and woke my husband with a huge smile on my face. He shared in my joy and calmly said, "you know, it's also Elul (a new Jewish month)... and Monday is our anniversary."

I could have cried with the sheer relief of it all. The weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders.

So who cares that we now have to get up and take three kids to three separate Ganim? Who cares that we now have parental meetings and all sorts of extracurriculars to handle? Who cares that I'm remembering my mom's passing at the same time as celebrating my marriage? NOT ME.

My mom would be super happy for me. She met my husband and loved him as a match for me. She saw the ultrasound of my first baby and loved the perfect shape of his head. I have an amazing husband who takes me to the beach at night to celebrate seven years, with wine and cheese, fruit and dip, and crepes with chocolate and jam. I have three ridiculous children who smile and scream with delight every time I come home from work. I live in a lovely neighborhood with really kind friends nearby who honestly care about me. I get to keep up and share videos and photographs with my friends and family regularly because of technology. I may not be financially wealthy (yet), but I am rich because I have a full life.

It's not perfect and I'd like another baby (healthy!), but today, at the beginning of September, Elul, and the rest of our lives, I'll take it.

Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: That Day and Beyond

Part VI: Thursday, August 22.
That Day and the Emotional Aftermath.

On Wednesday the 14th (an inauspicious day in my family), my husband and I woke up too early (not really, I slept through the first alarm at 5:30am) and snuck out to drive to Assuta in Tel Aviv by 7am. No one was awake in our house, not my husband's brother, not the baby, not the boys. My sister-in-law had also slept over so she could get a ride into TLV, but she was very quiet as well. What was there really to say?

We drove in, throwing small talk occasionally at each other, but mainly, I was nervous and quiet. I didn't really know what to expect physically or mentally. I won't go into too much detail, but the nurses and doctors at Assuta were extremely professional and kind (thank goodness). I got a lovely ventilated gown to wear during my stay, two stylish bracelets, and autographed several documents stating that I was aware of the risks and complications that could occur - standard run of the mill stuff, like a punctured uterus or retained placenta. I was nervous as hell and took prayers from whomever and wherever.

My first two births (my crazy boys) were drug-free but induced since I was on blood thinners and the doctors and midwives were nervous. In both the States and Israel, I took a half a cytotec pill orally and my body, apparently knowing what it was doing, simply took over. My third baby (Lil' Lilush) was all drug-free, no cytotec or anything. This fourth baby required a little more.

While sitting with the doctor discussing risks, he gave me FOUR cytotec pills, two to take sublingually (under my tongue) and two... elsewhere. I remember thinking it was overkill - what a terrible choice of words. But there's nothing "choice" about this "procedure." The most random thoughts go through your head when you're laying there, waiting for the pills to kick in, freezing, teeth chattering due to incoming wacky hormones and air conditioning, counting down the sixty minutes before they take you in.

And then they do.

They wheel you in through a set of double doors that requires one scanned card and then another. The doors in front of you don't open until the set behind you closes. I think, how odd it is that they have safari doors - what, they're afraid of crazed, pregnant women breaking out of the department, gowns flapping in the wind as they wave their hands in the air... Like I said, random thoughts.

My husband walks with me as far as he can go, grips my hand, tells me he loves me, and then I'm alone and it's freezing in the interior hallway. The hormones have jacked everything up and it feels like I've been here forever, but it's only been an hour since I took the pills. The kind nurse asks me again what my ID number is, and I crack and almost cry as I repeat it to her. It's too late to change my mind and I can't anyway - there's no point.

I'm asked to walk into the OR on my own accord and I do, chattering the whole way. The nurse gets me not one, but two heated blankets, one for beneath, one for above (it helps a little) and they prep me, give me a quick IV with antibiotics and an anesthetic and say, lilah tov.

...

And that's it. I wake up in recovery, empty. I sleep and sleep some more until they finally let my husband in. I sleep more and they wheel me back into my original room. I have to lay in bed for a total of two hours and ding them when I need to use the bathroom (kinda like after you give birth). So I lay there.

I don't remember what I spoke to my husband about except that I was hungry. We headed to Ra'anana and my in-laws suggested eating at this great place called Sara's Place. I wasn't really in the mood, but we went and I'm glad we did. With all my remaining energy, we ordered the best hamburgers and we talked. He mentioned that the nurse came in to the waiting area after my procedure and asked who was "Ariel haGibor (Ariel the hero)." Apparently while I was coming out of sedation, that's what I called him. We sat next to each other, we enjoyed our food, we shared photos of the kids, and we enjoyed each other's company thoroughly while trying to move forward from the hellish morning.

I don't really recall much after that. I hadn't realized that lunch took the entire week's energy. I'm pretty sure we went home and I rested. Slept and rested. Slept and rested. Played a bit with the kids as a pick-me-up and then rested more. Rested all of Thursday. On Friday we started studying for my first law exam. On Saturday, my oldest asked me when the baby was going to join us. On Sunday, I took my exam. Monday and Tuesday were "work" days, and Wednesday I studied again. Today (Thursday) was another exam which ended around 3:15pm and in three days, we will try and celebrate "Mama Chana" day (what would have been my mom's 79th birthday). Quite the month.

I haven't had much time to think about everything that happened over the last two weeks; all I've been doing is coughing, studying, and taking tests. Today, the last test for five months, has been the day I've been dreading - wondering if it would be as bad as the week after shiva ended. Truth be told, I'm in a foul mood, I'm sad, and I'm tired. Over the past week there were some days where I couldn't stop crying and there were some days when I was just... tired and disconnected. One guy at work kept asking what was wrong and I just didn't feel like sharing and voicing everything. See, writing is safe. Speaking is not.

It's getting harder and harder to write these articles. It's getting harder and harder to share how I'm feeling. It's getting harder and harder to think of the little baby and feel these things and I so badly just want to tuck them away. And sleep. A lot.

I don't really have a choice though. As a friend said, the sun comes up every morning whether you've coped with the day or not. I guess I'll just do my best, wipe my tears, play with my three little miracles and my husband the hero, and maybe, one day, my sun will come up, shine through the tears on my face and I'll get a rainbow.

Just not today. Maybe tomorrow.

Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: Swirling Thoughts

Part V: Tuesday, August 13.

My Swirling Thoughts.

Each morning for the past week (yes, it's been a week) I've struggled to get out of bed. In my everyday life since last August when I got re-diagnosed, I have suffered from depression. To combat it, I take anti-depressants and until now, they have been a life-saver. I also happen to have a sleep disorder; for this, I take sleep medication nightly (except for the nights before the days I think I'm going to have a "procedure," which isn't really a procedure, but rather the termination of a life that, apparently, wasn't meant to be). 

This week, however, was a doozy and the depression really kicked it up a notch. My husband shared with me last week that he was concerned for me and my mental health. Yea, nodding, I could see that, but I'll be okay. I'll write and write and write some more. Maybe I'll paint. Maybe I'll do more photography. Maybe I'll vomit.

I go to work because why not, what else am I going to do. So I arrive and it appears, from the outside, that it's a regular morning at my regular desk with the regular Mediterranean Sea outside my window.

From the inside, it's all turmoil. My thoughts center around this sad, broken little life still growing inside me. I just want to get past this already (whatever "this" is), and I'm glad it will finally be tomorrow. At the same time, I'm dreading it. Kinda like a funeral, I guess. You know you need to attend and you know it's going to suck, but you also know you might, possibly, start to feel some closure after it happens (or at least you hope so).

I draft and share my very first article about it, sharing my baby and my story with the world. Before this moment, very few people knew and, suddenly, everyone knows. The wall cracks and crumbles before me.

Everyone comments on my bravery; they message me privately; they leave messages of love and light to break through the darkness surrounding me; they send me WhatsApps. 

Women from Michigan, Israel, other cities and countries come out of the woodwork to flood me with love and stories; women I know, women I don't know, women who publicly share their experiences, women who have never told anyone about their loss. I hear from other women who (and a husband whose wife) went through something similar. 

They offer to chat, to listen, to sit next to me, to attend the procedure with me. It's incredible, a little intimidating, and very humbling. It makes me cry that (unfortunately) I am not alone though my situation is slightly different than most, me with a still-alive baby.

Here's what's not fair about this, aside from everything.

• I'm still nauseated.
• I still have cravings.
• I still take my folic acid and prenatal vitamins.
• I still am scared to drink alcohol even though it's completely and logically moot at this point.
• I feel guilty and relieved that I'll probably physically feel better after this is done.

Lunch is relatively "normal" and I find it surreal that this is my "new normal." 

It's only after lunch, as I start to think again, when I start to feel awful and queasy about the whole thing, even though I know, intellectually, it's the right decision. And that's part of the problem. Your brain says one thing and your heart wants something else.

The problem is that I was given way too much time to think about this.

The problem is that this happened at all and I will likely never ever have an answer for any of it. 

Hydrops fetalis happens. It's rare, but it happens. Only a tiny percentage of hydrops babies are miracle babies and mine, with its chromosomal abnormalities, defects in the umbilical cord, and possible and potential other bodily defects, is simply not one of them that had a chance.

But maybe that's a good thing. 

In a warped way, this could have been worse. The baby could have been given a tiny chance on which I would have had to wager. And, in all likelihood, the baby would have died somewhere between twenty-two weeks and birth, if we were lucky. When all this started, I joined a hydrops support group and I cannot tell you how many pictures I have seen of parents tearfully saying 'goodbye' to their little babies. Ironically, each picture made me feel better about the choice we were making.

Despite all this, the other thought endures. If I had to have a malformed fetus (the worst pairing of words in existence), why couldn't my body just manage to have a "regular" miscarriage? 

Why do I have to make this awful decision and sit with it for almost a week before being able to follow through?

How did this little fetus even get to this point of development... sheer stubbornness??

None of this is fair. Not even remotely.

Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: Protectzia

Part IV: Monday, August 12.

Protectzia

Instead of waking up at 6:00am and leaving the house within a half hour (sneaking out before the kids wake up) to head to Haifa, we play life as usual and pretend everything is normal. I put my eighteen month old on the back of my electric bike (teddy bear helmet, motzetz, and all) and take her to her Gan, her sucking on her pacifier the whole way, a smile on her face in the wind. Today, instead of accompanying me to my procedure that I should have been undergoing, my husband stays at home with two happy boys, waiting for a call from Maccabi, waiting for the peace of mind we've been seeking for days. 

For whatever reason, even though Ariel was the one on the phone with Maccabi all day, he didn't get the call that morning. Even though he was the one who spoke to nine different Maccabi representatives who each gave different information as to how long the process would take, when we'd receive the document, even how the process worked, he didn't get the call. Even though they promised to call him the moment it was approved and sent through, he didn't get the call.

He didn't get the call, but I did. I receive it by the time I'm on the train to work, late, at 9:00am, long after the "procedure" was scheduled at Rambam in Haifa. I immediately let my husband know he should call the hospital for an appointment the following day (Tuesday), thinking it was no big deal. He calls them, then calls me back. "Are you ready to be upset?," he asks. I hesitate, but nothing will surprise me at this point.

Apparently, they will no longer perform a D&E for me. No reason given. Perhaps it was because we were a "no-show" that morning, perhaps they didn't want to deal with Maccabi (I can't really blame them) - who knows. Either way, though they were more than willing to squeeze us in the last few days, it doesn't help us now.

Over the next several hours, we have no choice but to call different hospitals to see who, if any, will still perform a D&E at 14-15 weeks. My husband calls our amazing specialist (remember Dr. Drugan?) for a recommendation, then calls four different local hospitals. Some (Ichilov) don't bother answering, make him wait for forty-five minutes on hold before deigning to pick up the phone, and promise a call-back (which doesn't happen until after 5:00pm - and, by the by, they then inform us that they require their own, new, Committee hearing and finding). 

Another, Asaf HaRofe, accepts our situation, Committee finding, and Tofes (apparently they perform D&Es until twenty-something weeks), but they have a two-week waiting list. Ariel tries to call Assuta next, but can't find the right number to the proper department. My husband then calls Tel HaShomer, who was actually great. They answered the phone within seven minutes, listened to our situation kindly and carefully, and promised a call-back (and DID SO within an impressive thirty minutes - though luckily, by that time, we had already solved our issue).

While my husband is busy with the phone glued to his ear, I'm spewing my heart out about this emotional and tiring situation with my office-mate, now friend. She mentions, casually but quite seriously, that her father works at Assuta in Tel Aviv and asks if I want her to call him on my behalf... Yes. Absolutely, I say.

See, I'm no dummy. Elbows and patience aside, I know how this country works ("protectzia") and I never ever say no to these offers (if you're smart, you won't either). She calls him for me, he gives her a specific name and phone number at Assuta, and I pass the information on to my husband. He calls them back.

Within twenty minutes and just before high noon, I have a D&E scheduled at the beautiful (private) Assuta in Northern Tel Aviv for two days from now at 7:00am.

My heart stops. I am thrilled, but extremely cautious.

My husband is too. He confirms with Assuta that they will accept my Committee finding as well as the long-awaited Maccabi Tofes 17 that I've finally received for the other hospital. 

Not a problem, they said, practically waving their Israeli hand over the phone, they are partnered with Maccabi and, for them, I never needed a Tofes in the first place. All I need is my little plastic Maccabi ID card and paperwork. That's all. We never needed one for them and not one of the nine Maccabi representatives ever mentioned that option.

And that's all. Just like that, it's scheduled.

I thank my office-mate profusely. She shrugs it off, no biggie. It was just a phone call, she says (so Israeli).

I argue (so Israeli). Just a phone call for you, I insist (and note in my head that I will forever bring her strawberry flavored taffy).

But just a little paranoid, my husband calls Maccabi again to verify that the Tofes 17 will be accepted. Again, it is confirmed that it will be, but seriously, Assuta doesn't need it. We're good to go.

So... Wednesday, August 14^th will be the big day. Deep breath.

The end of a beginning.