My most challenging year wasn’t 2020. Admittedly, 2020 was tough—marked by a pandemic, devastating fires, the loss of Kobe Bryant, and the absence of nearly all my friends since March. It was undeniably rough, but it wasn’t the worst for me. We still had jobs, a home, food, and maybe a few extra trauma responses, but overall, we were managing. The worst year for me was 2015.
2015 was the third year of our journey to have another baby, and we were completely exhausted. Anyone who’s faced infertility understands the relentless cycle of hope and disappointment that comes with trying to conceive. It’s draining. I was diagnosed with Idiosyncratic Secondary Infertility, which translates to “You’ve had one child, but we have no idea why you can’t get pregnant again.” My body felt like it had betrayed me. Its two primary functions are to keep me alive and to reproduce. It was succeeding at the former but failing miserably at the latter, and I faced repeated disappointments for years.
The day before my 30th birthday, I did what had become routine: I tested for pregnancy. To save costs, I was buying my pregnancy tests from Dollar Tree, so I used a cup and dropper instead of the traditional stick method. This time, I was eager to see if we could finally tell our daughter that she would no longer be an only child. And this time, it was positive!
Overjoyed feels like an understatement; we were ecstatic. We called our parents, hinting at their February schedules, excitedly sharing that they would soon welcome another grandchild. We even bought a little baby keychain for our daughter, adding to her confusion about receiving a toy meant for a baby at eight years old by explaining it was for her future sibling. We started looking at baby clothes, signing up for rewards and coupons, and affectionately nicknamed our little one “Blueberry” based on its size.
Around this time, my mom and I were planning a visit to see my grandmother, the one who understood me best. I often called her for our chats filled with laughter, and I desperately wanted to see her. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer in 2011 but had been doing well until lung cancer was diagnosed earlier that year, indicating her time was limited. Our trip was scheduled for August, but we never made it. On July 10, 2015—her 64th anniversary of becoming a mother—my grandmother passed away. The last thing I told her was that I was pregnant and couldn’t wait for her to meet the baby.
Overwhelmed with grief, I feared that if I allowed myself to feel too sad, I might lose the pregnancy. I sensed something was wrong but hoped I was mistaken. I had no symptoms, just an underlying feeling of anxiety. I couldn’t allow myself to succumb to the sadness my heart craved; I needed to protect this baby.
A couple of weeks later, I experienced spotting and went to the ER, where my friend Mia was a nurse. She took care of me while they drew blood and monitored my condition. Everything seemed fine, and I was instructed to follow up with my OBGYN. However, when I went for my first ultrasound, my doctor, aware of our struggles, came in to see how things were progressing. The first thing he noted was the absence of a heartbeat and the fact that Blueberry was too small, indicating it had died earlier. His words were cold and callous, especially during such an invasive procedure while I was in a vulnerable position. I left the office in tears, lost in my thoughts.
I called my husband Jake, struggling to tell him our baby had died. Although we lived close to the hospital, I couldn’t bear being alone, so I drove to his workplace while he stayed on the line, calming me enough to avoid an accident. Upon returning home, I sought a second opinion from my previous OB-GYN, convinced that six weeks was too soon to declare a miscarriage without further investigation.
That night, the bleeding intensified, prompting me to call my sister, who rushed over to accompany us to the hospital. We drove in silence, knowing the gravity of what we faced. At the ER, I reported my miscarriage, but the staff treated me as though I were merely another case. I ran to the restroom, bleeding heavily; the reality of my situation was unbearable.
Eventually, I was placed in what we referred to as the “sad room.” My experience was far from painless; miscarriages involve intense cramping and emotional turmoil. Jason did his best to comfort me while I grappled with the profound loss. Hours passed with minimal attention from the staff, and I was offered pain relief only after the worst of it had passed.
Returning home, I took a painkiller and crawled into bed as dawn broke. The following morning, I felt something pass and discovered Blueberry in the toilet. Overwhelmed, I called for Jake, who looked into the bowl and flushed. In that moment, I felt a surge of anger. I wanted more than a simple flush for my loss; I craved acknowledgment of the magnitude of what had happened. I felt isolated, unprepared for such a devastating experience, and I directed my anger at everyone involved, including myself for my body’s failure.
The next three days were filled with sadness and painkillers. Friends provided meals and support, and by the fourth day, I resolved to embrace life again. We went out for pizza, allowing ourselves to grieve but refusing to be paralyzed by the pain. The love and support from our friends helped cushion our hearts during that dark time. Looking back, I wished those friends could have been present for the celebration of our younger daughter’s arrival.
2020 has brought its own share of losses—our jobs, personal space, and normalcy—but it pales in comparison to 2015. Having survived that year, I learned to navigate the hardest challenges life throws my way. Each time I face adversity, I remember that I endured the pain of losing my grandmother, Blueberry, and other heartaches. Those experiences hurt deeply, but I didn’t succumb to them. If I can persevere through those trials, I can push through anything life presents today.
For further insights on navigating infertility and home insemination, check out this informative blog post or explore Make a Mom’s resources for home insemination kits.
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In summary, my hardest year taught me resilience and strength, lessons that carried me through the chaos of 2020 and beyond. I learned the importance of support and the ability to confront pain head-on, and I’m thankful for the journey that shaped who I am today.
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