Overcoming Miscarriage
By Helene Barr
Timmins Ontario Canada
From: NEW BEGINNINGS, Vol.
19 No. 6, November-December 2002, pp. 214.
When I was 10 years old,
my mother was pregnant and I was really excited, awaiting the birth
of my baby brother impatiently. While grocery shopping, I insisted that
my mother buy a jar of baby food and eat it, to feed the baby in her
tummy. My mother's reasonable explanations were to no avail. She finally
bought the jar, and once home I made sure she ate the contents of the
jar in front of me. Sadly, at three months into her pregnancy, my mother
miscarried. I was devastated!
In 1988 I met Erik, the man
who swept me off my feet. Four years later we were wed and, after making
sure we had two secure jobs, bought a house. We were ready to start
a family.
That year we spent Christmas in Scotland with my husband's family. We
had a special announcement. "Helene's pregnant! We'll have a baby!"
said Erik. That same night, I started spotting. A few weeks later, back
at home, I miscarried our first baby. I named him Peter, after my miscarried
baby brother, Pierre.
We were told miscarriages
were common, especially in first pregnancies, so we wiped away our tears
and kept trying. In June, I learned I was pregnant again. Thrilled but
cautious, we waited to announce it. Two months later, while visiting
with my family in Quebec, we couldn't keep the secret any longer and
announced that I was pregnant again, but spotting regularly. Soon after
I miscarried again.
Devastated, I took five weeks
off from my teaching job. Erik and I met with an infertility specialist
to have our hormones and chromosomes examined. We were told that we
were fine. After another miscarriage, we went to an immunologist who
also told us we were fine. I began to wonder what we had done to deserve
this. Why us?
In September of 1996, I found
out that I was pregnant again. My immunologist prescribed complete bed
rest with only 10 minutes on my feet each day. I went from spending
my time with a class of 30 children to being alone on the couch all
day. At seven weeks I went for an ultrasound and heard my baby's heartbeat.
I had "morning sickness" all day long, a good sign according
to the doctors. By the end of October I was vomiting even dry toast
and water. Erik finally brought me to the emergency room, where they
told me I was dehydrated. The same nurse who saw me for most of my miscarriages
took a look at me and said, "Oh, no! Not again!" I told her
my body would make a baby and feed that baby if that was the last thing
I did.
While I was on bed rest,
Erik was making my lunch, doing the grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning,
washing dishes, laundry, and still holding a full-time job in his spare
time. He was exhausted and I was on the couch bored to tears-but I was
still pregnant!
At 41 weeks, there were no
signs of impending labor. I had overdone it in trying to keep my baby
in! Matthew was born by elective cesarean. Despite the spinal headache
from the anesthesia and a horrible postpartum rash, I was the happiest
mother alive.
The first time I put my precious
baby to the breast, he latched on like an expert. My baby at the breast,
at last. Before I left the hospital, one nurse told me, "You've
got a master feeder." I was the proudest mother on the planet.
After all those miscarriages and the years of being ashamed of my body
for not being able to do what women's bodies are built to do, I was
feeding and nurturing the baby I had longed for. My mission in life
was complete.
I spent the first months
of his life breastfeeding and holding him, healing from my miscarriages,
often crying tears of joy and relief. I lived for my baby, Matthew.
He was breastfed often, slept with Erik and me, and went everywhere
I went in a sling. I opted not to go back to work and vowed that his
feet wouldn't touch the ground before he was five years old.
Two years blissfully passed. Matthew was a fervent breastfeeding toddler,
and after one suspected miscarriage, I became pregnant again with my
daughter. Hazel's pregnancy was uneventful. Matthew showed no signs
of slowing down on his breastfeeding and, aside from a few impatient
moments, I still enjoyed our breastfeeding relationship.
When I was halfway through
my pregnancy, I asked him, "Is there any more milk in there?"
He said, "No." "And you still want to have a breast?"
I asked. "Yeah," he answered in a tone that implied I had
asked a dumb question. Matthew breastfed through my entire pregnancy
and through my early labor. I discovered it is true that oxytocin makes
your contractions stronger. I labored at home for as long as I could,
and then we went to the hospital because we were planning a VBAC (vaginal
birth after cesarean) and were considered high risk. Hazel was born
a few hours later, healthy and big. I put her to the breast right away
and the rest is a happy story. For six months, nothing passed her lips
but human milk.
Matthew has gently shared
"his" breasts with his baby sister. Today, Matthew and Hazel
are happy tandem nursing siblings and I'm a happy mother. Matthew just
turned five, Hazel just turned two, and I just turned, well, never mind.
Most of the time, Matthew breastfeeds for five seconds each day but
assures me that he loves it so much. I still feel triumphant after my
miscarriages. My body feeds and nurtures my two beautiful, precious
children. I'm going to enjoy it until they both outgrow the need!
Last updated Tuesday, August 29, 2006 by njb.
Page last edited Sun Oct 14 09:29:36 UTC 2007.
