I was 15 weeks and one day pregnant when I thought my water broke.
I knew something was wrong immediately. Fluid was rushing down my legs. I was hysterical, but the more I cried, the more fluid I felt, so I forced myself to stop crying, sure that if I didn’t move–if I barely breathed–that would give the babies a better chance of making it.
I laid on the floor waiting for the EMTs as my coworkers stood around me and tried to help. I had to give my miscarriage and medical history in front of my entire department, a new department I had joined about four months prior. Someone called my husband and my mom. I was barely coherent enough to tell my mom I wanted her to drive down immediately.
We were losing the babies. I still remember the doctor telling me I was being admitted “to observe the miscarriage.” They were going to do some testing, but I should prepare myself that the babies would probably not make it, given the volume of blood and fluid I had lost. It was just too early and at their gestational age, there was no chance that they would be viable.
I was admitted to the labor and delivery floor–an event that is usually greeted with joy. A sonogram was dutifully ordered, and to everyone’s surprise, the babies appeared to be fine. There was still enough fluid around them and their hearts were beating strong.
Nurses woke me throughout the night to check if my body had begun the miscarriage. I continued to bleed and lose fluid, but no cramping. Another sonogram was ordered first thing in the morning and the babies were still fine.
It was a miracle. It was early enough in the pregnancy that there really wasn’t any medical intervention they could do to help me keep the babies, so the doctors sent me home with a laundry list of signs and symptoms of miscarriage to watch for. I was to contact them immediately–I would have to be in the hospital if I miscarried because I was so far along and it was twins.
We were told, “At this point, the only thing you can do is pray.”
At that time, they determined I had a large subchorionic hemorrhage and one of the placentas was partially torn. I was put on strict bed rest and told that we would revisit that once I stopped bleeding.
That was the beginning of 141 days of bed rest. My girls were fighters. They held on through more hemorrhaging, a placenta previa, gestational diabetes, preterm labor, and preeclampsia. My body struggled daily to maintain the pregnancy and eventually my liver stopped working properly.
My husband took over all of the day-to-day tasks, cooking, cleaning, shopping, and yardwork in addition to working full time and preparing the nursery for our girls. He brought me freshly cooked dinners and spent the evenings with me anxiously awaiting the results of the daily blood draws. They would determine if my liver was still functioning properly.
It’s funny–during this time my only worry was the babies. Even as the doctors poured over the results of my daily blood draws and scratched their heads that I could appear to be as healthy as I was when my liver function was in the the tank, I only worried about my girls being able to stay in me long enough to be healthy.
Tim, on the other hand, prayed that he would not be asked if he wanted the doctors to save me or save the babies. Every doctor I saw (I believe it was 12 doctors in total) told me the goal would be to get to me 32 weeks.
My girls and I defied every expectation and held on until 35 weeks.
They were both born healthy. They are the miscarriage that wasn’t. And I’m so thankful for them each and every day.
Cancer Ever After 