Pregnancy Loss: Scars
I noticed this week, when I examined my stomach in the mirror, that my Linea Nigra is fading. It is strange that it has lasted this long, two months shy of the two-year mark since my pregnancy loss at 24 weeks. Her name would have been Isla. Since then, I’ve grown, changed, gone through four rounds of egg extractions and a successful implantation followed by miscarriage; through it all, my Linea Nigra has been there, a constant companion. Normally this line disappears within a few months of delivery, or so says google. I have always wondered why mine has held on for so long. Initially it haunted me, I would wake up every morning after those horrible July days, examining it, willing it to go away. As if its disappearance would somehow heal the ache within my soul.
Those days were haunted.
It felt to me that the entire female population of New York City was pregnant; I had dark fantasies about running up to a random pregnant lady and punching her in the stomach. Sometimes tears would well up in my eyes upon seeing a pregnant woman and I would turn my face away for fear of the inevitable look of pity that would fly my way. During this period of time, my husband and I met with a grief counselor, where my husband admitted to me that he was worried I wouldn’t make it through the darkness. I found his concern comforting because in all my moments of despair, jealousy, envy and anger, I never once questioned whether I would make it to the other side. Somehow, I always knew that I would. It is embarrassing to admit, but I believe all those dark fantasies helped me; they gave me a target for my anger outside of myself. Maybe I knew that the anger needed to go somewhere or else it would turn inside and cast a permanent shadow on my soul. Slowly, the fantasies subsided, I noticed pregnant women less and, when I did, I was able to bask in their joy for a moment.
That January I started IVF.
Naively, I assumed one round, maybe two, and I would be done. My first pregnancy was natural and happened quickly, and so, I assumed IVF would be an easy road. I was wrong. Our first round we didn’t get any viable embryos. During that period, my Linea Nigra served as a source of comfort. A physical stamp on my body reminding me of my strength and resilience and that, no matter how dark the days, I would always get to the other side. Through three more rounds of egg extractions my Linea Nigra wrapped me in a blanket of encouragement. After our fourth round we had amazing news, four viable embryos. We decided to proceed with implantation. About one and a half years after my first pregnancy loss, I was ready to try again.
The days after implantation felt like years.
Every hour lasting for days. Finally, nine days later, I had my blood test. Positive. I couldn’t believe it. Those first couple weeks after that positive pregnancy test were some of the best of my life. Then, the bleeding began. The first ultrasound following breakthrough bleeding showed that I had burst a blood vessel, but that the embryo was safe and doing fine, I even got to see the heartbeat. Even the second ultrasound, after what could have easily been mistaken for a murder scene, was promising. But, at our next scheduled ultrasound, the Thursday after Christmas, the heartbeat could no longer be found, and the fetal pole was disappearing. I was just past eight weeks. Due to the holiday, we had to wait until the following week for a D&C. Up until that point I hadn’t experienced much sickness, but, in a cruel trick, nausea swept over me like a tidal wave that weekend. Through those days my Linea Nigra stood by my side, an unwavering companion and friend. Not so much holding my hand, as pulling me through the fog and showing me the way to the other side.
Perhaps due to the grasp that COVID-19 has on our lives or maybe due to the fact that isolation has managed to decrease the burden father time places on my shoulders, I hadn’t said hello to my Linea Nigra during the past two months, until today. Instead of a bold streak of strength down my stomach, my eyes were greeted by a weak faded line. A mere echo of the memory that used to occupy the space. I surprised myself with drops of sadness in my eyes. “I agree”, I said silently, “it’s time to say goodbye, I don’t need you here any longer.” I don’t know how long her shadow will linger, perhaps a suggestion of her existence will always persist, and I hope it does. Like all scars, her existence says something about who I am, where I’ve been and, hopefully, where I’m going. But I know that I no longer need her constant comfort, able, at last, to finish the journey on my own.
Medical Disclaimer:
The information provided in this blog is intended for general informational purposes only and should not be considered as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your healthcare provider or qualified medical professional with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read in this blog.
