My Pro-Life Story, Part 3

Continued from Part 1 and Part 2:

I became pregnant for the fourth time at age 34. With two successful deliveries behind me, my biggest concern was how I would manage three children aged three and under. I’d always wanted four children, you see, and I wanted to have them all before I was 35, because at the time, the prevailing wisdom held that moms over 35 were statistically much more likely to have a baby with Down’s Syndrome. Also, I didn’t really know anyone who’d had children after 35--at least not on purpose.

Moms who have lost a child to miscarriage are especially nervous during the first trimester; since my first loss it has always been hard to believe that my baby will really be safely born. Passing that 12-week mark is huge. And statistically, once you make it past 12 weeks, you’re pretty much in the clear, especially once the baby’s heartbeat has clearly been established.

I was 14 weeks pregnant and had already seen that tiny beating heart twice when, at an office visit, they couldn’t find my baby's heartbeat with the Doppler.

“Don’t worry,” they said. “Let’s just take a peek on the ultrasound to see what’s going on.”

I kept the printout from that ultrasound. The clearest thing—besides the tiny little ribcage, which was very, very still—was a miniature hand, raised in a goodbye wave, floating as if in space. That was 2001, and sometimes I still cry when I think about that little hand. And the ultrasound tech, with a really bad look on her face: "Oh, Kimberly, I'm so sorry." At such times, sometimes it's actually helpful to have a toddler in the room with you; Mommy responsibility keeps you from completely falling apart.

This time, I knew better than to try to stay at home for the whole thing. We’d moved by then, too, and our first little house was only about 10 minutes from the hospital.

I waited too long. I had the baby in my bathroom. It was tragic, and startling, mostly because—it was a baby. My 14-week-old fetus was shaped exactly like a tiny little human, complete with arms, legs, fingers, toes. I’d never imagined that a miscarriage would produce anything but blobs of tissue—that’s all they ever talk about, after all. My sweet husband (Remember that ‘wise and wonderful’ colleague from the beginning of this story? It’s him.) wrapped up the baby’s body and brought it with us to the ER.

I’d thought that no miscarriage could be harder than that first one. After all, I had two kids already, and as an experienced miscarry-er, I was tough. Right? Wrong. I fell apart. Good thing for the profuse amount of pictures of my two toddlers that summer, because I don’t remember much of it. We were moving, of course. And then came the 9/11 attacks, which rocked everyone's world. Of course, I was desperate to become pregnant again—and hysterical when two whole months (!) of trying went by with no baby on the way.

Part 4 is here.