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When I shared the news of my youngest child’s birth on social media, a friend I had seen just weeks prior reached out, utterly stunned. She hadn’t noticed my pregnancy at all.
While I hadn’t gone out of my way to conceal it during our last meeting, I also hadn’t brought it up. I wore a pair of loose shorts and a comfy T-shirt, and when we were all gathered watching TV, I lay on my back due to discomfort. I genuinely thought my baby bump would be noticeable, at least in that position.
But discussing my pregnancy was the last thing I wanted to do. Drawing attention to it felt overwhelming, and I was simply trying to cope. Having announced pregnancies twice before, this experience was entirely different.
I was measuring small—eight weeks behind, to be precise. During a routine prenatal checkup, my urine protein levels were flagged as high, leading to a preeclampsia diagnosis. Ultrasounds showed my baby was IUGR (intrauterine growth restriction) and that my amniotic fluid levels were low. In my mind, I was carrying a baby who might not survive. Some might think I was being overly dramatic, but my doctor understood my fears.
Just three months before conceiving this child, I had given birth, but that time, I didn’t get to take my baby home. My little girl was taken to the morgue, while I left the hospital with a box of mementos instead of my child. Saying that losing my daughter shattered me would be an understatement.
I had announced my previous pregnancy at twelve weeks as was customary, and everything had seemed perfect—until it wasn’t. I ended up in the hospital with sepsis and a lifeless baby.
Experiencing such a public loss can be isolating. Society still struggles with how to support those who have lost a child, and the stigma surrounding it leaves many unsure of how to respond. I attended my sister’s wedding just ten days after my loss, and most guests avoided making eye contact. Some offered condolences—directed at me, not my husband. I was even uninvited from a baby shower.
In the loss community, we talk about secondary losses and trauma. The way others reacted to my grief felt like a secondary trauma, adding to my pain. We didn’t have a funeral or any acknowledgment of our loss’s significance. I knew that if I became pregnant again, I needed to control when and how I shared that news. I wouldn’t hide my loss, but I also wouldn’t share until I was ready to face the potential trauma again.
When I became pregnant again so soon after, I wasn’t prepared to share the news in the first trimester. As the second trimester passed, I still felt unready. I faced pressure to tell a few people, and some guessed, but there was no grand announcement. Many remained unaware.
As I entered my third trimester, complications arose: the IUGR and preeclampsia. I had bi-weekly clinic visits and one frightening trip to Labor and Delivery after I hadn’t felt movement for over an hour. My heart was bracing for grief, not ready to welcome a new life. So, although I intended to announce in the third trimester, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Measuring eight weeks behind certainly helped keep my pregnancy under wraps. The photo above was taken the day before my induction at 37 weeks. My eldest child was eagerly anticipating a living sibling, and I was clinging to that hope.
I may have hinted at the outcome in my opening line, but we did welcome a healthy baby boy in July 2018, exactly eleven months after my daughter’s birth. He has become the light of our lives.
This post first appeared on Medium.
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In summary, my journey through pregnancy after loss has been fraught with challenges and complicated emotions. Choosing to keep my pregnancy hidden until the end was a personal decision rooted in my previous experiences with grief. Despite the struggles, we ultimately welcomed a healthy baby boy, which brought joy and light back into our lives.