My most challenging year wasn’t 2020. Sure, that year brought its share of difficulties, including a pandemic, fires, and the tragic loss of beloved figures. I didn’t see many friends for nearly a year, which was tough. Yet, despite everything, we still had our jobs, a roof over our heads, and food on the table. We were coping, albeit with some additional trauma responses. But the real low point came in 2015.
That year marked the third attempt in our quest to expand our family. Anyone who has navigated infertility knows the relentless cycle of anticipation and disappointment that accompanies trying to conceive. It’s draining. I received a diagnosis of Idiopathic Secondary Infertility, essentially meaning, “You had one child, but for reasons unknown, you can’t seem to get pregnant again.” It felt as though my body had betrayed me. While it was keeping me alive, it was failing at its other fundamental task: reproduction. The repeated failures weighed heavily on me for years.
The day before my 30th birthday, I did what I had done countless times before: I tested for pregnancy. Since tests can be pricey, I resorted to buying them at the dollar store, so I used a cup and a dropper instead of the classic stick method. This time, however, I saw two lines—this was finally the month we could tell our daughter that she would soon have a sibling. We were overjoyed!
We eagerly called our parents, hinting at an exciting February announcement. We even gifted our daughter a small baby toy, explaining it was for her future brother or sister. We began browsing baby clothes and signing up for rewards and coupons, affectionately nicknaming our little one “Blueberry” for its size.
Around this time, my mother and I were planning a trip to see my grandmother, who understood me like no one else. We spoke frequently, and I worried that if I didn’t visit soon, I might never see her again. She had battled breast cancer since 2011 and, earlier that year, was diagnosed with lung cancer. Our trip was scheduled for August, but we never made it. On July 10, 2015, my Mema Frances passed away. The last thing I told her was that I was pregnant and couldn’t wait for her to meet the baby.
The grief was overwhelming, and I feared that if I let myself feel too deeply, I might lose the pregnancy. My intuition told me something was wrong, but I brushed it off as anxiety. I had no physical symptoms, just a persistent feeling of unease. I tried to remain strong for the sake of the baby.
A couple of weeks later, I experienced some spotting and went to the ER, where a friend of mine worked as a nurse. While my blood was drawn and tests were conducted, I was reassured that everything looked fine. However, during my first ultrasound days later, the news was devastating. The ultrasound tech, Judy, prepared me for the worst, and my doctor soon confirmed there was no heartbeat. He casually stated that a miscarriage at this stage doesn’t hurt much because the fetus is so small—words that felt especially heartless given the circumstances.
After the appointment, I called my husband, Eric, to relay the heartbreaking news. I drove to his workplace, needing his support, and he left immediately to come home with me. The initial shock set in, and I sought a second opinion. I scheduled an appointment for August 4th, desperate for reassurance.
That night, the bleeding intensified. I called my sister, who rushed over, and we headed to the hospital in silence, knowing we were facing our worst fears. Upon arrival, I informed the staff that I was having a miscarriage. The night dragged on in a designated “sad room,” where I learned that miscarriages are painful, regardless of the fetus’s size. As I cramped and cried, Eric tried to comfort me, but the waiting felt endless.
I was offered pain medication, which I hesitantly accepted. After a long night, we returned home, exhausted. I woke up the next morning to find that I had passed Blueberry. In a panic, I called for Eric, who, perhaps unsure of what to do, flushed the toilet. I felt furious and unacknowledged in my grief. I was angry at him, the doctors, and most of all, my body for failing me once again.
For three days, I remained in a fog of sadness, medicated and supported by friends who brought us meals and offered love. On the fourth day, we ventured out for pizza, and I made a conscious decision to stop wallowing in grief. I recognized that while sadness was valid, I couldn’t let it paralyze me. Surrounded by friends, we shared our pain and began to heal.
Fast forward to 2020, a year filled with systemic losses. We lost our jobs, our personal time, and a sense of normalcy, but compared to 2015, it felt minor. We survived that year, and I learned how to navigate the toughest challenges. Each time life throws a curveball, I remember that I endured profound losses—yet I am still here. I’ve learned that as long as I keep waking up, I can face whatever comes my way.
Summary
In this reflection, the author recounts the trials of 2015, marked by struggles with infertility and the loss of a beloved grandmother. Despite the heartbreak of losing a pregnancy, the experience equipped the author to handle the challenges of 2020, illustrating resilience in the face of adversity.