Part 2: New family expansion plan

The cover photo is an AI-generated image of what a program thinks I’d look like pregnant. This is part 2 of a many part series. Read Part 1: Pregnancy loss after loss after loss after loss here.

Brian and I did some soul searching Fall 2022. We’d lost 5 babies in 4 pregnancies and had a profoundly disabled daughter.

Yet still, our hearts didn’t seem to be hardened, even after all we’d been through. We decided it was a sign we should keep going — we’d handle whatever came our way, just like we always did.

“We still have like 10 frozen embryos so let’s start IVF again since those are from when we were both younger and less likely to have abnormalities. We know we’ll probably have more failures and losses, but, maybe one embryo might be okay someday and we’ll have another kid. But if we make it through our remaining 10 with no baby, then we sit down and reevaluate.”

We agreed.

I went to my next IVF appointment, telling my doctor we were ready to try again. She then very gently asked me in Estonian, “Have you considered egg donation?”

I didn’t bat an eyelash. I was 38. We were running out of time. And it could be that one of those 10 frozen kiddos was our next baby just waiting for us. It was time to start trying. “Nope. We want to try the rest of our remaining embryos.”

“But your last pregnancy was trisomy 13 and your daughter has a genetic syndrome. Your chances of another genetically abnormal child are high.”

“We know. But some of the embryos might also be genetically normal.” I countered in my broken Estonian.

She paused, considering what I said. “Well. True.”

“So we want to try those first.”

She took a deep breath, skepticism clearly written all over her face. “Okay, if you’re sure. Let’s get you scheduled.”

So in December we had the first of what we assumed would be many IVF transfers in our quest to expand our family — implanting two of the strongest candidates we had left in the freezer.

Approaching the transfer we weren’t pessimistic, but I can’t say we were optimisic, either. Which is why when the pregnancy test came back positive, nothing really changed for us. We’d been down this road before. Pregnancies had always come with loss, so we were mentally prepared.

But, week after week, one single embryo kept growing. Yet, still, I kept expecting for the blood to start or for the next appointment to give us the same bad news as usual — “I’m sorry. I’m not seeing a heartbeat. Come back next week and we’ll look again.”

But, strangely, that day never came.

As the first trimester weeks kept passing, Brian started to get more and more excited.

Me, though? I just felt confused.

I mean, we’d been down this road so many times. I knew how the story went. I couldn’t get excited because I knew it would end sooner or later. I mean, sure, we hadn’t lost the baby yet and the chances kept decreasing with every passing week, but when had that ever meant anything for us? I mean, even if this baby kept growing we needed to face the facts — genetically this kid was probably not okay. From our first IVF egg collection when I was 32, we’d already gone through 20+ embryos which resulted in one miscarriage and 6 failed embryo transfers. The writing was on the wall — we did not produce genetically viable babies.

So what would we do when we found out that, even if this baby kept growing, that it wouldn’t be okay? I wasn’t sure how I would react.

Which is why I did the one thing that made logical sense to my loss-riddled heart — I stayed disconnected. This baby wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

One day, late into the first trimester, Brian kindly asked me a question I’d already been asking myself. “What do you think you need to accept that this baby is real and that we will be bringing it home?”

I was surprised when tears sprang immediately to my eyes. “I don’t know, Brian. I don’t know. My best guess is I need to know that this one is genetically alright to accept this pregnancy is real.”

We talked awhile and decided we needed some advice. I reached out to several moms who also had disabled kids to find out what they’d done and came up with a plan on how to move forward. If there continued to be no anomalies at our ultrasounds, then I’d do a non-invasive blood test which would check for Eloise’s genetic deletion as well as common genetic conditions. From there, we’d see how I felt and whether I wanted to do an invasive procedure like amniocentisis to be even more sure.

Because, honestly, my continued detachment was beginning to scare me. I wasn’t used to disconnecting from my emotions. And it didn’t feel healthy.

Besides, I already knew that a blood test wasn’t 100% proof everything was okay. And even an amniocentisis wouldn’t be able to catch everything — I now know so many familes with kids that have rare, yet devastating single gene anomalies that never would have been flagged, no matter what the test in utero. Not to mention if you start thinking about the possibilities of autism or birth trauma or later accidents that can still leave kids profoundly disabled.

Nothing is guaranteed. Which is why I wondered, could I ever accept that this baby was real? Could I ever believe we weren’t going to lose this one? Could I ever get to a point where I would allow myself to start to plan and get excited?

I mean, what if it turned out this one was disabled, too? What would we do?

I wasn’t sure I knew my answer. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. But it was time to face myself, because I needed to know.

Next post? Part 3: What if this one is disabled, too?

All our love,

Mallory, Brian, and Eloise

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