The Maybe Baby
I went into the bathroom and saw that my exceptionally late period had finally made its appearance. So that was the reason why I had wanted to do nothing but crawl under the covers and hide for the past week.
Years later I`ve realised that that heavy, late period was my first miscarriage, and as it turned out, the beginning of a long, long road to motherhood.
Six months into our relationship, my Swiss husband-to-be and I, overjoyed at being pregnant for what we thought was the first time, went to a gynaecologist in Zurich for a scan. We were simply told, “It isn’t living; there`s no heartbeat.” We were devastated.
A few months later I was pregnant again. This time we decided to see a different gynaecologist, hopefully with a more gentle bedside manner. She insisted that our baby was two weeks younger than I knew it was. I instinctively knew there was something wrong, and after the appointment, outside on the pavement under a drizzling, grey Zurich winter sky, I wept inconsolably into my husband’s parka. We sadly lost that baby, too.
The time following the three losses in six months was beyond challenging. My body was depleted, my hormones were all over the place, and our marriage was on the verge of collapse. Relatives and friends didn`t know what to do to help, and I didn’t know how to help myself. Our new life together had all gone so horribly wrong, and part of me wanted to pack up and run back home. We underwent counselling, and, refusing to give up on rekindling the love that had led me to happily surrender my life in Australia to come to Switzerland, we stayed together, each silently praying that it would somehow get better.
Five months later, we married in magnificent weather, but I was in a dazed fog, the celebration happening all around, but not within me. Later I learned that on our wedding day I had again been two weeks pregnant. That baby wasn’t to be, either.
Physically and mentally, I couldn’t have coped with losing any more pregnancies and our new marriage would have ended. We took a year out so I could recover and so we could get to know each other anew, unfettered by tragedy. I decided to submerge myself into researching what could be going on. During my search for answers at the edge of science, I discovered pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD), which tests the health of embryos before they are reimplanted during an IVF cycle. I felt that if anyone was a candidate for that, I was, and my doctors agreed.
I moved back to Australia to undergo treatment and to be with my mum. My husband travelled back and forth when he could. Of the fifteen eggs that were fertilized, only one survived. I developed ovarian-hyperstimulation syndrome from the IVF drugs, so our one precious chance was frozen for three months while I yet again (almost) recovered. We named our embryo our “Maybe Baby.”
After the implantation, we busied ourselves relentlessly – did anything – to pass the time, and finally, fourteen unbearably long days later, the phone rang. I was pregnant! At this moment, we were a family of three and we revelled in it as if it was forever.
At the dating scan, a tiny butterfly of a heartbeat showed itself, fluttering like crazy! The scans were a major hurdle for us, and at 11 weeks we went for the second one. The measurement of the tiny fold at the back of the baby’s neck was way outside the normal range – a major marker for genetic abnormality. We had the tiniest ray of hope in that my blood tests didn’t reflect a genetic problem, plus we had to trust the genetic testing.
The doctor assured us it could be something else – a heart problem, perhaps – or maybe nothing at all. My cousin’s baby had had the same scan result and had no genetic issues. We clung to hope. My husband returned to Switzerland to work and, alone with my worried mum, I waited an interminable five weeks to do the amniocentisis (a genetic profile taken from baby`s skin flakes in the amniotic fluid). I desperately needed either reassurance that the baby was going to make it, or to prepare if he or she was to have special needs.
My husband finally arrived, and we did the test and then again awaited the results. After over two weeks of waiting and almost paralysed by fear, I finally rang the clinic. I couldn’t talk to the receptionist properly through my tears – but I did hear her emphatically tell me there was nothing wrong! I dropped the phone in my husband`s lap and cried uncontrollably. This time, they were tears of relief and joy.
I had been helped by a revolutionary area of science for which I will always be grateful, but although it scared me, a part of me somehow still wanted the birth to be natural. Again, I researched everything available until I found a course that encompassed almost every tool offered by the multitude of courses out there. I was convinced, so we did the course, read some books, and went into the birth excited and confident.
For me at 165 cm and 53 kg, with my baby being 4.9 kg and 60 cm, it was really hard work and an incredibly intense experience! Yet it was so empowering and transformational that it changed the course of my life. Besides promising in the hour after birthing him that I would dedicate my life to birth preparation, I became the mother of a beautiful little boy who has become my greatest teacher.
The challenges we all face as parents can begin so early on in the journey. We all have stories that we don’t wear on the outside that colour our decisions. We all do the best that we can. I hope, by sharing this story, I can make someone else’s journey that little bit easier.
By Michelle Seaton Witte
Michelle Seaton Witte is a pre- and postnatal yoga teacher in Zurich and a She Births® birth educator. Find out more at the She Births website or on her Facebook page.
Illustration by Lara Friedrich
Lara has been a freelance illustrator for Mothering Matters since early 2013. She is in her second year of university where she’s currently working as an assistant in a research project in pedagogy. Lara is also an assistant translator from German to English for various fiction books, as well as being a demo singer for the songwriter Kate Northrop.
