How to Deal with a Miscarriage in the Family

Miscarriage—the forbidden “M” word nobody wants to talk about.

Losing a baby is one of the most painful tragedies a person can ever experience, whether the child is fully grown or a fragile little fetus inside a mother’s womb. Because society dictates that a miscarriage should be kept hush-hush, grieving parents all over the world carry the pain in their hearts and suffer in silence without any way to mourn their loss. But keeping it all in does not make the pain go away, nor does it make the loss any less real. Here’s how to deal with a loved one who’s coping with losing a baby.

For a Friend

1.Talk to them.

Sadly, we live in a world where women hide in the shame of miscarrying. Being there for your friend and letting her talk about her miscarriage will lift a huge burden off her shoulders and help her pour out her heart without fear of being judged.

2.DO NOT minimize the situation.

A great, big no-no is to say “at least” to your friend who has just miscarried. Never say “at least it was only three months” because it doesn’t matter if the baby was two weeks old or two years old—the pain of the baby’s death is just as excruciating. 

Another horrible thing to do is to say that she can always try again next time. There is no comfort in telling a grieving couple that they can simply replace the baby they’ve lost with another one.

To The Woman Who Has Miscarried --- Happy Mother’s Day

I was pregnant.

After all the treatments and pills and injections and debts, I was pregnant.

All it took were two pink lines and our joy was complete. I remember exactly the way my husband grinned at me when I rushed out of the bathroom, waving a gross peed-on stick around in the air.

In the sky that night, we gazed up at the fireworks exploding gloriously just as our own hearts were. We squeezed each other’s hand and knew that by this time next year, our holidays would be filled with a wonderful little addition to our married life. This was it. Our baby was here.

And then it was gone.

We’d always known it would be a high-risk pregnancy. The years of fertility treatments, blood transfusions, and failed inseminations made sure of that. So when our baby came, I transformed into the most delicate person in the world. The masks, the home injections, the quarantine, the house arrest. I was hospitalized twice in three weeks and couldn’t leave my room for days. All of these to make sure our precious little miracle hung in there and made it out safely.

But no amount of medical treatment could keep our baby alive, and at just 8 weeks, that tiny heart stopped beating.

And then mine broke.

It was cozy in our doctor’s clinic. While everyone was staring up at the game show flickering on TV, I was huddled in the corner with my stupid face mask on and the blurred photo of our tiny one in my hand. Nobody was looking at us, at my husband who was trying his best to be strong for me. Nobody was looking at how I tried to muffle my sobs because this just wasn’t the time and place. Nobody cared about the life we were losing.

Our baby was struggling inside me, her heart weak and frail and beating at 50 beats per minute. “Too low,” the doctor said. Too low to sustain the pregnancy, too weak to go on, too impossible to live.

When her heart rate dropped to zero, she was taken from me.

A lot of preparation, a lot of waiting, and a lot of blood. What was once my baby was now called a “specimen”, and that was it. In my last desperate act of clinging to my little one, I asked the nurse if they found anything during the procedure. But they didn’t. Not a tiny speck, not a single piece of evidence that my baby was once alive. Just bits of meat and blood, blood, blood.

The moment I woke up from the anesthesia, there was a sound in the other room, the beautiful cry of a newborn baby being delivered. And there I was, having just had mine removed.

They told me it was normal. They told me that losing an early baby was just like having your period. But when that baby has lived inside me for eight weeks, how could I not love her so, so much? Towards the end, all I could say to her was that it was okay. “It’s okay, sweetie, I’m still here. Don’t be afraid; I’m not going anywhere.” And it was true. Even in our baby’s final moments, I was still there. And that hole in my heart reserved for her would remain empty forever.

There are no funerals for a miscarriage. There is no ceremony to mourn the death of an unborn child, no eulogy for a dead baby, no socially accepted outlet to grieve over this loss. And even though your body heals itself in a few weeks, your heart just can’t recover the same way.

To you who have miscarried, I am sorry for your pain. I’m sorry that the world tells you to be quiet about your agony, to suffer in silence, to hide the baby you’ve lost. I’m sorry that not everyone understands how losing a baby means losing a part of yourself, and that no matter how long you tried to keep her alive—days, weeks, months—you will always carry that death in your heart. I’m sorry if every baby shower, every children’s party, every TV ad, and every pair of onesies on sale in the window reminds you of the child you never got to raise.

But that is how a mother is. Horrific and scarring and excruciating as the loss might have been, your child is your child, and no miscarriage can make you any less of a Mom. Our baby may only have been with us for a brief time, but for those magnificent two months, my husband and I became the happiest parents in the world. And that’s something nobody can take away.

So to you who have ever had a miscarriage, I salute you.

You were willing to do whatever it took to keep your baby healthy and well for as long as you possibly could.

You took that seed and nourished it, planned your baby’s life ahead of you, and knew exactly what he or she might have grown up to be.

You carried her and took care of her, stayed up late on troublesome nights to make sure she was okay.

You took her to doctor’s appointments to keep her healthy; you played with her and read to her and sang her to sleep.

You were brave enough to stay with her throughout her whole life, and even though you were scared, you were strong enough to hold on to her and never let her go.

You touched her with a mother’s touch and loved her with a mother’s love.

You are a Mom.

Here’s to you then, dear sister, and here’s to every beautiful unborn baby in the world. You are our children, and we are your Mom.

And no matter what happens, sweet little one, you will never be forgotten.

How to Care For Your C-Section (But Not Really) Scar After Surgery

If somebody had told me years ago that I would stop wearing bikinis by the age of twenty-five, I would have laughed at that guy’s face. Not that I’m that mean—to laugh at someone’s face and stuff—but it’s just hard to believe, is all.

Of course, how could I have known I would get an ovary sliced out smack in the middle of my quarter-life crisis?

Yes, I had a huge three-headed Hidden Mickey cyst removed (you can read all about it HERE) two years ago, and as a result, I had to say goodbye to my tiny string swimsuits because, heaven forbid, I wouldn’t want anyone to get grossed out by the big fat scar across my belly.

Sure, I can still pull off my cute two-pieces at the beach every now and then, because hell yes, scarred people are beautiful. Still, exposing my scar can’t be all that good for it, now is it? It doesn’t help that I’m a major Keloid-former, too.

So if you’ve ever had an oophorectomy (goodbye ovary!), a C-Section, or a sorta-C-Section-but-kinda-not-really-scar-across-your-belly, here are just some tips on how to care for your wound.

All About APAS: Infertility in Today’s World

When a mother loses a baby back in the day, people would often assume that it just wasn’t meant to be. “The baby wasn’t ready”. “The timing just wasn’t right”, “You can always try again”—these were the most common things that well-meaning friends and family would say to someone who had lost a baby. Left undiagnosed, these miscarriages seemed normal, but now that medical advances have finally looked into these unexplained losses, we have a definite yet extremely complicated answer: APAS. Short for Antiphospholipid Antibodies Syndrome, APAS is now the growing cause of recurring miscarriages and difficulty to conceive in most women today.

It may sound like a lot of scientific mumbo-jumbo, but the bottom line is this—APAS makes baby-making a challenge. It requires patience, emotional strength, a hefty medical budget, and a great leap of faith.

I should know—I have APAS, after all.

What is APAS?

In layman’s terms, what APAS basically means is that a person’s antibodies are sort of on overdrive—they sometimes mistake their own body cells for foreign invaders, hence, attacking them. The antibodies attack all foreign bodies—which includes anything related to making a baby.

It’s true that there are a host of other factors that may hinder a couple from conceiving properly. The woman may have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome or PCOS, Endometriosis, blocked fallopian tubes, and so on. The husband may also have sperm with decreased mobility or high levels of abnormalities, opening up a different kind of infertility. But APAS is one of the most difficult factors to treat, which is why a lot of couples find themselves becoming disheartened.

Characterized by internal blood clotting, unsuccessful IUIs (Intra Uterine Insemination), and failed IVFs (In Vitro Fertilization), APAS brings a whole new meaning to waiting for the stork to come. Most women who have inexplicable infertility might not be aware that they should consult their medical provider for a series of reproductive immunology tests. These tests will help determine if the patient is indeed positive for APAS—at the very least, they can start getting the proper treatment they need in order to make a healthy baby a possibility.

What does it all mean?

There are five categories when a woman undergoes immunological testing. 

Working Up Chronicles: How to Count Your Ovulation Cycle

For everyone who’s trying to get pregnant, we all know it’s not that easy. I used to think it was as simple as bumping uglies, but hey, those who don’t want to have kids are usually the ones who end up getting accidentally preggers, while those who actually WANT to have kids are the ones who can’t. Ironic world, really.

There is a delicate and extremely complicated process called counting-the-days-until-you’re-fertile-again-so-let’s-do-this. And it’s not just doing it whenever you feel like it.

So according to our immunologic fertility doctor, here’s how you should count the days.

Image source: http://thesmiths3511.blogspot.com/2011/04/welcome-to-gator-town.html

How He Loved Me

It all started with a pimple.

Glaring and annoying and right there on my face, the pimple was when it all began.

The Working Up Chronicles: How to Deal with Fertility Issues

A.P.A.S.

You have A.P.A.S., they would say. I used to fantasize that it was something cool, something awesome and superhero-ey, like I had a special ability that only a select few in a secret society of agents were chosen to bear.

Turns out, A.P.A.S. is short for Antiphospholipid Antibody Syndrome, and it’s nothing as cool as I was fooling myself it was.

There are varying levels and cases and specifics, but what it simply means for me is that my antibodies are far too intense to the point of rejecting any foreign body, including my husband’s, including any future baby.

Surprisingly, the condition is pretty common nowadays, especially for Fil-Chi couples. (My reproductive immunologist is Dr. Eduardo Lim or Ed Lim in Maddocs for APAS). But in my case, it’s a little bit more complicated because of my PCOS, my Endometriosis, and my Dermoid cyst that may or may not return…let’s just say that it is going to be quite difficult to have a baby just like that.

Still, if you and your husband are working up to add a little bundle of joy into your family, here are just a few tips on how to deal.

When You’re Struggling With Fertility…