I understand you were just trying to make small talk, a typical question that non-parents pose to their parent friends with a sly smile: “So, when are you planning to have another baby?” You chuckled, fully aware that “trying for a baby” is code for a different kind of activity. Essentially, you were asking, “Are you and your partner gearing up for some unprotected intimacy soon?” It’s a topic that feels acceptable to broach because of the baby context, or so you thought.
“I’m not sure,” I replied nonchalantly. What I didn’t divulge is that I’ve already experienced the heartache of being pregnant with both baby number two and baby number three.
I kept silent about the pain of losing them both within months. Each time, everything began with just a trickle of blood, which soon escalated into a deluge. It stained my legs, the carpet, and the bathroom floor. My partner had to rush out in the dead of night to the 24-hour store to fetch incontinence pads that barely sufficed.
My young daughter walked in on me in the bathroom as I sat on the toilet, facing the reality of passing large clumps of red tissue. “Mommy is a bit messy,” she observed, glancing at the blood on my thighs. “Yes, sweetie, Mommy is a bit messy. But I will clean it up,” I managed to say, forcing a smile despite the turmoil inside me. That’s what she needed to see.
I didn’t share how challenging it was to sit in the hospital’s early pregnancy unit afterward, surrounded by expectant mothers gushing about their morning sickness. I longed for that feeling, that discomfort, more than anything else.
I didn’t mention the eerie silence as the nurse moved the ultrasound wand across my abdomen, confirming my worst fears. In the weeks that followed my miscarriages, I turned to unhealthy coping mechanisms, indulging in sugar and alcohol. I had previously taken such good care of myself—exercising regularly, taking prenatal vitamins, and avoiding caffeine and alcohol—but it all felt pointless. I stopped caring and started to look as drained as I felt, becoming bloated from my indulgences.
I kept quiet about how difficult it was to discover that my experience wasn’t typical; only 2% of women endure consecutive miscarriages. With every loss, the probability of another occurrence increases, leaving me uncertain about my ability to survive another pregnancy.
My concerns extend beyond the physical discomfort of bleeding; it’s the nine months of anxiety that terrify me. Each visit to the restroom brings a wave of dread. My mental health is too delicate to endure another year of worrying over every symptom and sensation. I genuinely believe that another loss would shatter me.
So, no, we won’t be trying for another child—not at this time. I don’t need comments about my age or reminders that my daughter would excel as a big sister. I am acutely aware of the ticking clock and fully understand the void in our family.
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In summary, the journey of trying for another baby is complex and fraught with emotional challenges. After experiencing the loss of two pregnancies, I am not ready to embark on this path again. My focus is on healing and ensuring my mental well-being before considering another attempt at expanding our family.