Gwyneth - Part 1

I have finally come to that place.

The place where I think I can tell the whole story - start to finish, beginning to end. 

The story of Gwyneth Maude Rowan Campbell.

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When I finally recovered from the shock of my third pregancy of 2010, I found myself in a strange place.

I had been through a lot in the previous four years. The previous twelve months alone were filled with grief, joy, despair, ambivalence, and hope.

While I was stunned and somewhat excited by the voicemail on my phone confirming this pregnancy, I knew that I could not handle yet another miscarriage. I remember that I refused to start writing in another journal for this next baby - whom I'd nicknamed "Little Gumdrop" - until I got through the first ultrasound. I thought, No way. I cannot let my heart be ripped from my chest and ground into pieces again.

And so I did not allow myself to be excited. I told immediate family so they could be there for us in case things went wrong again, but inside, I kept telling myself not to get attached. Not to be excited. Not to share this news with anyone. I couldn't do it.

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Sometime in January of 2011, I went to my first ultrasound. 

You cannot imagine my near ecstasy when the technician told me to look at the screen, and I saw what I knew - without any explanation - was my baby's heart beating on that monitor.

It was a moment I will carry with me for all my days on this earth.

I was crying, I was laughing, I was elated and scared and amazed all in one fell swoop.

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That heartbeat - it changed me. Little did I know it would change my entire life.

My "little gumdrop" was a force to be reckoned with from the word go. She made herself known in every possible way. I had nausea that kept me from eating all day - only after 8pm could I keep anything down. And when I did - what was happening?!? Somehow I had been imbued with her father's tastebuds AND his metabolism.

I could eat like a truck driver. It was nothing for me to pound back chocolate bars, bags of chips, hungry man breakfast orders, extra cheese on everything - I have to admit, being pregnant was the time of my life in terms of eating! (After 17 weeks I'd only gained 4 pounds).

But there were some oddities. I suddenly had cravings for rootbeer floats. Which I happen to think rank among the most disgusting "foods" in the world. But while pregnant, I loved them. I couldn't tolerate cooking meat of any kind, and I didn't crave pickles. It seemed like I was having a fairly normal pregnancy.

I saw my family doctor for one more visit, and then received a spot with the local midwives. I was excited - my dream was for an at-home water birth. I was fairly terrified of delivery, but my biggest focus was on breastfeeding.

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I had been introduced to the guru of all things breastfeeding - Dr. Jack Newman of the Newman Breastfeeding Clinic in Toronto - by my midwife. He had written the gold standard book of all things breastfeeding - aptly titled, Dr. Jack Newman's Guide to Breastfeeding. I jokingly began referring to the book as my "breastfeeding Bible." 

It was the ONLY book I read about parenting or childbirth while pregnant.

Not What to Expect When You're Expecting. Not any of the other many books my friends recommended. 

Just Dr. Jack's book. It went with me everywhere. I pored over the illustrations and diagrams and photos and dog-eared my loaned copy until it was wearing thin.

Here's the thing: I yearned for the closeness of nursing my child. It was something that had been glaringly missing in my maternal line. Everyone in my family had given up - my sister, my mom (I don't think my grandmother or great-grandmother even bothered).

I still don't understand what drove me to be so obsessed about feeding my baby. Perhaps it was to prove everyone wrong - the doctor who told me my breasts didn't have the right "design" for nursing. My mother and sister who told me it was too hard and not to worry about it. 

And so I read and read and read. I told myself I didn't want to read all the other books or blogs or articles. I didn't want to hear all the things that could go wrong. I just knew that breast-feeding was the one thing I had to do right.

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In March, I took a week's vacation during my school break to visit my university roommate who lived in Colorado. I hadn't told her I was expecting. She too was pregnant, with her second, and I was excited to surprise her at the airport with my new t-shirt, which simply said, "Pregnant is the new sexy."

Kelli and I shared a wonderful week together with her husband Jack and their 14-month-old daughter, Ellie. We talked all things babies, shared our dreams and baby names, and I even convinced her to risk trying some sushi - rebel that I am!

Midway through my visit, Kelli shared some upsetting news from the Emergency Room at the hospital where both she and her husband worked as nurses. A woman had been admitted at 26 weeks pregnant, and her water had broken.

We were both sobered by this news. I remember asking Kelli, "Will her baby even live?"

"Oh yes," Kelli assured me. "I'm sure she and her baby will be okay."

It was the first I'd known that a baby born so early could survive.

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On my second appointment with the midwife, at the end of April 2011, I completed a standard urine test to check for protein levels. Generally I had been feeling well - the nausea had mercifully made itself scarce at this point - but I was experiencing some swelling that was a nuissance but nothing more. I was five months along and was getting back to running a few times a week. Things seemed to be picking up. 

After peeing on my test strip, I looked at the chart and saw that my colour was a bit higher than "normal." This of course meant nothing to me - I'd never experienced more than ten weeks of pregnancy before, and everything was new.

My midwife made a note of the elevated level, but assured me there was nothing to be worried about. I asked her about my swollen feet and hands. "I thought that didn't really happen until closer to the end?"

She reassured me, saying, "I don't think you have anything to worry about. We will see you again in a month."

I went home and wrote the date in my calendar for my third midwife appointment: May 27, 2011.

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. . . to be continued . . . 

Motherhood is a Choice: Part 3

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Her name was Coco Lucille. "Lucy."

I spoke to her in my dreams. I envisioned her tiny hands and feet as they might have been one day. Her due date - May 2 - was forever branded on my heart.

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When I left the hospital, the doctor gave me his home phone number and asked me to call him if I had any further complications.

By Friday, I needed to call him.

The bleeding wouldn't stop. It had been three days. He booked me to come in for a D&C.

I remember an empty feeling in my stomach, and it wasn't simply from remembering not to eat before my procedure. While I have always argued for the rights of women to have access to medically safe abortions, my personal worldview was that a life was not mine to take, even if it was living inside me.

And though in a cerebral way I knew that my Little Bean was no longer alive - knew that medically I needed to have this procedure - it felt like a betrayal. How could I allow my beautiful baby's remains to be scraped and sucked away from me? Even now, nearly eight years later, I feel guilty that things had to end in such violence.

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Saturday morning, Thanksgiving weekend. The local OB/GYN performed the routine procedure to remove what was left of my pregnancy from my womb. When I came around after the surgery, he was kind-hearted. He spoke to me of what to expect next. He said, "You need to know that after a D&C, your body will be very receptive to pregnancy. You may decide that you want to try again right away. If you aren't feeling ready for that, then you should take extra precautions to avoid getting pregnant in the next few months."

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We didn't tell anyone about the baby other than immediate family - my mom, my sister and her husband and children, and my husband's mother and sister.

I recall sitting at my mom's dining room table, trying desperately to keep a false face from hiding what my false heart did know. I was going through the motions, passing the turkey, eating pumpkin pie, but inside I was screaming. My mom's siblings, my cousin, and my grandma were all present. This was supposed to be the day of my pregnancy announcement.

For some strange reason, my mom decided this would be a great time to start a new tradition of going around the table and each stating something for which we were thankful. I couldn't believe she could be so unbelievably insensitive. What in God's name did she think Ian and I were going to say? It was the most uncomfortable family gathering of my life. I went home and cried myself to sleep.

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That fall, I collected the roses from my garden before the last frost. I've always been far more sentimental than I let on to others. I have boxes of keepsakes - tiny mementoes that mean nothing to anyone else, but that ground me in my experiences and remind me of times of joy and grief in equal measure.

I gathered those roses and I placed every petal in a little bag. In a tiny leap of faith, I decided that if I ever had a daughter, I would give them to her on her wedding day.

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Over the next few months, I am not sure how I made it out of bed in the mornings, let alone how I dragged myself to work. My anger seethed, barely below the surface. I was short with my students, and while I gained a small level of sympathy and cooperation after telling them I'd lost a baby, it lasted for a teenage minute and then they went back to being typical teenagers. I had no patience for their antics or misbehaviour. I dreaded going to work every day.

Ian and I barely spoke. We were both grieving, but we didn't know how to talk to each other about it. The chasm between us was an abyss. I remember lying on our bed sobbing with rage and bitterness. I wouldn't let him touch me. I wore my self-loathing and guilt and inadequacy as badges of honour.

Finally at the end of November, after I knew I should have finished ovulating for that month, I broke down and tried to make some kind of physical amends with Ian. I was so scared. I didn't want to ever be pregnant again. Afterwards, Ian held me in his arms and I cried into his chest.

"I don't want to get pregnant if I'm just going to keep losing babies. I can't take it. It would have been better to have continued believing I couldn't get pregnant than to go through this," I told him between gasping sobs.

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That Christmas, Ian and I decided we should go away and have some time together. We booked a weeklong cruise to the Caribbean. I arranged to take a day off work just before the school holidays started so that we could get away before the rush.

Our cruise was set to embark at 5pm on Friday afternoon from Fort Lauderdale. I was feeling a bit annoyed as the time approached since I knew my period was due to start the week before we left.

When shark week came and went without a period in sight, I had a funny feeling again. No. There was no way I could be pregnant again. I had been very careful to avoid any kind of intimacy except for the week right before my period. There wasn't any possible chance I could be pregnant.

I don't know what possessed me to make the doctor's appointment. I remember sheepishly telling my doctor that I just had a strange feeling, similar to how I'd felt back in August, that I was pregnant again. The nurse took a urine sample; the results were negative. To this day I'm not sure why my doctor sent me for bloodwork. Maybe it was because he felt sorry for me and didn't want to completely dash my hopes. Maybe it was because I told him we were leaving on a cruise and I didn't want to drink if I might be pregnant.

No matter the reason, I went to have bloodwork done at the lab on Wednesday. I gave the doctor's office my cell number and asked them to call me with the results.

As we sailed out of Fort Lauderdale on Friday evening, I called for my voicemail messages. There was nothing.

We embarked on our week away and I drank a margarita on the balcony, soaking in the sun and trying to enjoy my vacation.


- To be continued -

Motherhood is a Choice: Part 2

I found myself in an unexpected situation in August of 2010.

After announcing to family and close friends that we had made the choice to have no kids, I had this strange inkling that I might be pregnant.

I was late, but this wasn't unusual with my PCOS.

I gave my mom the garden ornament. She cried and asked if I was sure.

We attended a Red Hats event with her fellow August-birthday friend Peg. I remember going along and while I don't recall anything of that day, I do know that when I dropped my mom back at her place, I confided that I was wondering if I might be pregnant. I was exhibiting quite a few symptoms that made me wonder.

It took me another week before I finally broke down and took a home-pregnancy test. I had been disappointed so many times before that I just couldn't bear to face another frustrating and futile experience.

My husband was planning to go away for a guys' weekend at a cottage, so I thought perhaps I'd wait until he was gone and take the test by myself.

That lasted for all of one day.

I gave in on Thursday morning. I took the test.

It was positive.

I still remember the surreal feeling I had in those first moments. I really didn't know whether to cry or fly.

I went to work. It was school photo day. I remember getting my picture taken and then telling my Vice-Principal that I would need to miss one of my classes to see the doctor that afternoon.

I honestly don't even remember how or when I told Ian. I just know that I told him before he went on his weekend away.

We were both excited, but cautiously so.

In the next few weeks, I started feeling signs of fatigue and even nausea. This pregnancy became real to me in a way I could hardly describe even now.

I started journalling every day - my thoughts and dreams - in a book for my unborn child. I nicknamed my tiny fetus "Little Bean" and I cannot tell you how in love I was with this ball of cells growing inside me.

About this time, the wife of one of my colleagues revealed that she was also pregnant. I knew they had struggled as well to conceive, and so I congratulated my co-worker and wished him well.

He was worried. He felt she'd told everyone too soon. She was only ten weeks along, and he knew things could still go wrong. But he didn't want to dampen her excitement.

In the third week of September, he came to work with horrible news. His wife had gone in for an ultrasound. While on the table, the technician informed her that she wasn't pregnant anymore. The doctor came in and told her she would likely need to have a D&C to "deal with" the remains of the fetus.

I was absolutely horrified and heartbroken. I remember crying with him in the English office, and I definitely wished I hadn't told him I was pregnant.

That week, I made them a lasagna and an apple pie. My colleague seemed stunned. He thanked me but I knew he was not really able to focus on anything in that moment.

On the last Friday in September, one week after my colleague's loss, I went to the hospital for my first ultrasound. I went alone. I remember thinking of my friends and what they were going through, and feeling some warped type of survivor's guilt as I waited for the technician to show me my baby on the screen.

Only that never happened. She told me to call my doctor's office later that afternoon for the results.

When I called the doctor, the receptionist told me that my dates were off and I wasn't far enough along for the ultrasound to show anything yet. I would need to rebook for another appointment in two weeks.

I remember talking to my mom and saying, "Well, at least I didn't just have the same experience as my friends did."

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It was a Wednesday morning. It was the first week of October, and by my calculations, I was nearly at the 11-week mark in my pregnancy. I was getting excited about Canadian Thanksgiving, which was coming that weekend. Ian and I had made plans to finally tell our family about the baby.

As soon as I escaped from that first moment between asleep and awake, I knew something was wrong. I was bleeding.

I went to the bathroom and everything was red.

I called to Ian, and he quickly dressed and took me to the Emergency Room.

On arrival, they took me into one of the private rooms and gave me a pregnancy test. It came back positive. The doctor tried to be reassuring - perhaps all was not lost.

Then I went in for another ultrasound. I remember the room. Even with the low lighting, I was cut to the quick by the painting on the wall - a Trisha Romance print called "School Days" with lovely young children heading into their tiny one-room schoolhouse.

Trisha Romance's painting entitled "School Days"

That image was seared into my mind's eye, and it hollowed my heart. I felt a sense of spite towards the art, as if I were being personally attacked by that beautiful painting of happy, cherubic children.

As I lay on that cold uncomfortable bed, I cried silently. Tears sliding down my cheeks, I was unable to process what was happening to me.

The doctor came to talk to me. He told me that although I still had high levels of HCG in my blood, I was indeed no longer carrying a viable fetus. He sent me home and told me to take things easy.

Ian and I went back to my mom's place. I remember being in a fair bit of pain - sort of like cramps - and sleeping for most of the afternoon.

Around 6pm, the contractions started. I was going into labour.

The pain was absolutely excruciating, and I had never seen so much blood in my life. Anyone who knows me knows that I pass out if I cut my finger. This was not going to end well.

My mom is a retired nurse. She started timing my contractions. I don't remember much of the next two hours, but I do remember her telling Ian, "We have to take her to the hospital or she's going to bleed to death."

A lot happened over the next twenty-four hours. I was kept in the ER in a bed and they tried to help slow my bleeding and deal with the contractions.

I do remember one incident of my time there that evening. I remember waiting outside the patient bathroom. I was standing in my hospital gown, looking down at my toenails. A nurse came by and said, "Wow! What a great red colour on your nails - I love it!"

All I could think was, "It's the exact same colour as the baby that's bleeding away from me."

- To be continued -