I found out I was pregnant with Joy two weeks before my date of birth for the second pregnancy I missed. Standing in the bathroom, looking at a positive test, I started to cry.
“I’m very scared,” I told my husband. “I can not do this again.”
Two children, a dog. This was the plan after we had our daughter Stella in the summer of 2017. When we learned that I was pregnant again two years later, we were thrilled.
There were some early warning signs that the pregnancy might not be going as well as it should, but we were assured that I was probably not as far away as I thought.
Hand in hand, Mike and I entered the ultrasound clinic for an eight-week scan. My only concern was that my pants would pee after I had drunk all the water recommended for the appointment. Ultrasound technology came in, took some pictures and then left to look at them.
Elizabeth, pregnant with Joy, poses for a family portrait with husband Mike Kickham, their daughter Stella and the family’s chocolate Labrador retriever, Beatrix. (Lauren Dary / Lauren Dary Photography)
He did not open the screen. After many ultrasounds with Stella, we knew this was not a good sign.
When the radiologist broke the news, my response was a sob, deep and primordial. Hot tears rolled down my face as Mike pulled me out of the clinic.
I had a miscarriage at home two weeks later.
The following spring, as I began to feel like myself again, I discovered that I was pregnant for the third time. I gave the positive test to my little boy and told her to take it to Dad. We were excited but nervous. Worried not to be fooled by anything, we kept the news silent.
It took me many weeks to get the courage to go see my doctor. The idea of losing another baby led to a panic attack. And because of the pandemic, I had to attend all the medical appointments alone.
On the day of the ultrasound, it took me all my strength to get to the clinic. The weight of the world rose from my shoulders when the technician opened the screen and showed me my tiny baby, my healthy heartbeat and everything. Once again tears rolled down my face – this time, tears of relief. I sent Mike “baby” pictures and the heartbeat video we were so eager to see just months ago.
Pregnant again, full of fear
My happiness only lasted until I got home.
“The scan notes show that there is a problem with the size of the cervix,” my doctor said on the phone. I went down a hole in Google searches that led me to realize I was going to lose this baby. My follow-up ultrasound was reserved for next week.
I spent those days lying in bed, rubbing my belly and begging the universe, with this baby, to let me be the exception. When the week was over, I wanted my feet up the stairs to the clinic.
He did not open the screen.
“Sorry, there is no heartbeat,” said the radiologist. I returned to the car, hysterical. I expelled him home four days later.
Six months later, I was there again, standing in my bathroom, pregnant for the fourth time, full of fear.
We did not tell anyone.
I wanted to be excited but how could I trust my body? Every slight cramp made me panic and I was sure it was just a matter of time until I lost this baby too. My doctor kindly ordered multiple emergency ultrasounds to relax my mind. Every time I entered the room, these words – “Sorry there is no heartbeat” – swirled in my head.
I was desperately trying to protect my heart. As I reached each milestone, I moved the goal positions for when I could relax. Twelve weeks. Twenty weeks. When I feel the baby kicking. I was pregnant with Joy, but I could not enjoy it.
And then there was Chara, who was shown here by mom Elizabeth, with sister Stella and dad Mike. (Natalie D’Aoust / Natalie D’Aoust Photography)
When I went to bed at night and counted those little kicks, guilt sank. This baby deserved all the love and attention my pregnancy with Stella had received. All the baby photos, all the blog posts and all the anticipation.
“Do not congratulate me until I hold the baby in my arms,” I said nervously to my friends and family, after we had finally shared the news.
I thought that preparing myself to lose her might not have hurt so much. I know now that all I did was torture myself.
In July 2021, two days after her due date, I gave birth to my beautiful baby girl, Joey Margaret. Mike and I cried as I held her tightly in my arms for the first time.
After everything we had experienced, our Joy was finally here.
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