More Than Miscarriage

There is something about trying again after pregnancy loss that changes you.

The first time you go into a transfer, you are filled with excitement, hope, and dreams of what could be. You imagine the positive pregnancy test, the ultrasounds, the growing belly, and the baby you will finally get to bring home.

But trying again after loss?

It’s different.

You still have hope, but now that hope comes with fear. You know what it feels like to hear the words you never wanted to hear. You know what it feels like to have your entire future ripped away in a matter of moments.

And yet, somehow, you find the courage to try again.

This is the story of our third embryo transfer. The transfer where we carried more grief than we ever imagined possible.

Deciding to Hope Again

In early December, my husband and I made the decision that we were ready to try again.

Well, as ready as we could be.

We were still grieving the loss of our twins. We were still trying to understand how we went from expecting two babies to coming home with empty arms.

But we wanted to be parents. More than anything.

And we weren’t ready to give up on that dream.

Our embryology lab was closed for part of December, which meant we would have to wait until January for our next transfer.

We knew the process. We knew the medications, the appointments, the bloodwork, and the endless waiting.

But this time, we were doing things a little differently.

We had added medications and made adjustments to our protocol. We were hopeful that maybe, just maybe, we had found the answers we needed.

We told ourselves that this time could be different.

Little did we know that before we even made it to transfer day, our lives would change again.

When Grief Kept Coming

In the middle of December, my mom told me that my grandmother wasn’t doing well.

My grandmother, Geraldine, had been living with Alzheimer’s for some time, and her health was declining rapidly.

To understand what losing her meant to me, you have to understand who she was in my life.

From the time I was a baby until I moved to Texas at 18, I spent nearly every weekend with my grandmother.

She was a constant in my life.

She was comfort. She was love. She was home.

She was one of those people you know won’t live forever, but a part of you truly believes they somehow will.

The day after Christmas, my grandmother passed away.

I was there.

I watched her take her last breath.

And just like that, a woman who had been part of my entire life was gone.

I was 29 years old, and I had lost someone who had been there for every single one of those years.

I was already grieving the babies I never got to hold.

Now I was grieving the woman who had held me my entire childhood.

And then, as if our hearts hadn’t already been through enough, we received more devastating news.

My husband’s great-grandmother had passed away.

Yes, you read that right. His great-grandmother.

What an incredible blessing to have a great-grandmother in your life for so long. She was an amazing woman, and losing her was another heartbreak for our family.

In just a few months, we were grieving our twins, my grandmother, and my husband’s great-grandmother.

It felt like every time we tried to stand back up, life knocked us down again.

Do We Keep Going?

At this point, we had a decision to make.

Do we push our transfer back?

Do we give ourselves more time to grieve?

Or do we continue with the plan we had already made?

I don’t think there was a right or wrong answer.

Part of me wondered how much more my heart could take. But another part of me desperately needed something to look forward to.

Something good.

Something hopeful.

We decided to stay the course while we figured out funeral arrangements and waited for my period to start.

Both funerals were scheduled for January.

And somehow, almost miraculously, everything lined up.

We were able to attend both funerals, be with our families, say our goodbyes, and return home in time for our transfer.

The timing felt almost too perfect.

I took it as a sign.

Maybe we were supposed to keep going.

Maybe after so much loss, something beautiful was finally waiting for us.

A Little Girl Sent From Heaven

We went into our third transfer with so much excitement.

This time, we transferred a little girl.

And I couldn’t help but think about my grandmother.

You see, my grandmother had spent her career as a baby nurse. She cared for babies. She loved babies. Caring for others was simply who she was.

She was even there with my mom when she gave birth to me and my sisters.

My grandmother spent her life helping bring babies into the world and caring for them.

And now, here I was, desperately hoping to bring my own baby into the world.

I started to imagine that maybe this little girl was a gift from my grandmother.

Maybe Grandma Geraldine was sending us our baby.

Maybe this was her way of telling me that she was still with us.

I know that might sound silly to some people, but when you’re grieving, sometimes those little pieces of hope are what keep you going.

And I held onto that thought with everything I had.

The Words I Wanted to Hear, But Was Terrified Of

Then came the news.

Our transfer worked.

I was pregnant.

Again.

Those were the words I had prayed so hard to hear.

But something was different this time.

Instead of feeling nothing but excitement, I felt fear.

So much fear.

Because I knew that a positive pregnancy test didn’t guarantee a baby.

I knew that rising HCG numbers didn’t guarantee a heartbeat.

I knew that seeing a baby on an ultrasound didn’t guarantee I would get to bring that baby home.

I had already learned those lessons in the most heartbreaking way possible.

I wanted to celebrate.

I wanted to tell everyone.

I wanted to start dreaming about our little girl.

But I was terrified that if I let myself get too excited, it would hurt even more if something went wrong.

Still, as the days passed, I slowly started allowing myself to hope.

We made it to five weeks.

Things seemed to be going well.

I was starting to believe that maybe this really was our turn.

Maybe we were finally going to get our rainbow after the storm.

And Then Everything Came Crashing Down

Week six came.

And I started bleeding.

I remember that feeling.

That awful, sinking feeling in your stomach when you know something isn’t right.

I had been here before.

I knew what bleeding could mean.

And deep down, I knew.

I was losing our little girl.

Again, the world around me seemed to stop.

We went to our fertility clinic, and what I feared was confirmed.

I was no longer pregnant.

My body had already done the hard work of miscarrying.

There was nothing left to do.

No procedure to schedule.

No pregnancy to save.

It was just over.

Another embryo.

Another pregnancy.

Another baby we would never get to meet.

I had allowed myself to believe that my grandmother had sent us this little girl.

And now she was gone, too.

I don’t think there are words that can fully explain what it feels like to lose a pregnancy after IVF.

You don’t just lose the pregnancy.

You lose the future you had already started imagining.

You lose the due date you had calculated.

You lose the little person you had already begun loving.

And you lose another piece of the hope you had worked so hard to rebuild.

When Grief Turns Into Anger

I thought this miscarriage would completely destroy me.

I thought I would fall apart so badly that I wouldn’t know how to put myself back together.

And don’t get me wrong, I was devastated.

But this time, something was different.

My husband was there to help pick up the pieces of me that I couldn’t put back together myself.

My therapist helped me work through emotions that I didn’t even know how to explain.

And somewhere in the middle of all that sadness, my grief started turning into something else.

Anger.

I was angry at my body.

Angry that we had lost another baby.

Angry that we had done everything we were supposed to do, and it still wasn’t enough.

Angry that we didn’t have answers.

Angry that I could get pregnant but couldn’t seem to stay pregnant.

I kept asking myself the same questions.

What is wrong with me?

What are we missing?

What can I do differently?

Why does my body keep doing this?

I know now that my body wasn’t intentionally failing me. But in those moments, that is exactly how it felt.

I was exhausted from being told to keep hoping.

I didn’t want another reassuring phrase.

I didn’t want to hear that everything happens for a reason.

I wanted answers.

I needed answers.

The World Doesn’t Stop When Yours Does

One of the hardest things about grief is realizing that the world keeps moving even when yours has completely stopped.

People still go to work.

People still announce pregnancies.

Babies are still born.

Friends still make plans.

Holidays still come and go.

And somehow, you’re expected to keep participating in life.

You still have to get out of bed.

You still have to cook dinner.

You still have to clean the house, answer emails, go to work, and have conversations with people who have no idea how much pain you’re carrying.

You smile when you don’t feel like smiling.

You say you’re fine when you’re anything but fine.

And sometimes, you feel angry that everyone else gets to keep living normally while you’re trying to figure out how to survive another day.

Grief doesn’t stop the world. It just changes the way you experience it.

And that was something I was learning over and over again.

This Time, I Needed Answers

After our third transfer ended in another miscarriage, I knew I couldn’t keep doing the same thing and hoping for a different outcome without asking more questions.

We had now miscarried two transferred embryos.

Two babies we had loved.

Two pregnancies that had given us hope before ending in heartbreak.

I went to my doctor and asked what else we could do.

What tests could we run?

What could we change?

Was there something we were missing?

I needed to understand why this kept happening.

We started pursuing more testing and looking deeper into possible explanations.

At that point, my journey had changed.

In the beginning, IVF was about getting pregnant.

Now, it was about understanding why I couldn’t stay pregnant.

It was about trying to find answers in a situation that felt completely out of my control.

And while I knew there might not be one simple explanation, I wasn’t ready to stop asking questions.

I needed to know that we were doing everything we could.

For our babies.

For our future.

And for ourselves.

Hoping That the Fourth Time Would Be Different

Looking back, I don’t know how we found the strength to keep going.

In such a short amount of time, we had experienced more loss than I ever imagined we would.

We had said goodbye to our twins.

We had said goodbye to two incredible women in our family.

And now, we had said goodbye to another baby.

There were days when I wondered how much grief one person could carry.

But even with all that heartbreak, there was still a part of me that wasn’t ready to give up.

A part of me that still pictured our family growing.

A part of me that still believed we could bring a baby home.

And a part of me that hoped all the testing, all the changes, and all the heartbreak would eventually lead us to the answers we needed.

Transfer number three ended in another miscarriage.

We had hoped this would be the last time we would ever experience that pain.

It wasn’t.

But at that moment, we didn’t know what was ahead.

All we knew was that we wanted to try again.

We hoped transfer number four would finally be the one.

And once again, we found ourselves doing the hardest thing of all.

Choosing to hope, even when hope had hurt us before.

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To anyone who is trying again after loss: I see you.

I see the excitement you are afraid to feel. I see the anxiety behind every appointment, every blood draw, and every trip to the bathroom. I see the grief you carry for the babies who came before.

Trying again doesn’t mean you’ve moved on. It doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten. And it doesn’t mean you’re no longer grieving.

Sometimes, trying again simply means that grief and hope have learned to exist in the same heart.

And sometimes, that is the bravest thing you can do.

With love,

More Than Miscarriage 🤍