Molar Pregnancy and Chemo

"I'm afraid I don't have good news." 

My nightmare.

I've dreamed this at least five times since seeing the positive pregnancy test. It's just my nightmare.

Except this is real, I'm not waking up.

There I was, alone, after passing the big "12-week mark", in the beginning of what seemed like the perfect pregnancy. The nausea hadn't let up-- I threw up minutes before leaving the house for my appointment-- and I had no symptoms other than the ones that indicated that everything was going amazingly.

I'd seen my baby's heartbeat three times already.

I told my siblings and we told our parents, I was getting ready to tell my closest friends.

I had all of the reassurance in the world.

I was past the beginning phase of dreading going to the bathroom in case I saw blood, and easing into the "this is really happening!" phase.

I was past 12 weeks.

How could this be happening to me?

I dialed my husband's phone number and right when he said hello I said his name is in tears.

"No way," he said, followed by "No."

I didn't have to say a word, he didn't need to hear a word. He knew where I was and why I was calling. That was all he could say.

After weeks of reassuring me when I got lost in my ridiculous, irrational worries about our seemingly perfect pregnancy, all that there was left to say: "No way."

You know that feeling when everything is perfect and it's almost too good to be true?

The only way to explain this was that it was too bad to be true.

We could not believe it.

Not like the saying, but like I was very literally waiting for the doctor to say he was joking and hand me it printed photo of her baby to add to the collection at home.

Is that something doctors do? Joke about this? I wondered. As if that's actually something doctors would ever do...

The next few hours were a blur. I had to speak to this person about scheduling a procedure since my body was stubbornly holding onto this pregnancy, this person about getting a covid test, this person about what insurance would and wouldn't cover.

The tears didn't stop.

I could barely look at my husband, knowing how badly he wanted to be a father, knowing he wondered about who our baby would have been, knowing how genuinely and patiently he reassured me whenever I was worried about our pregnancy, knowing how much he had been praying every day for this to work out, praying everyday with gratitude for what we had been blessed with.

Then it was time for the D&C.

I was completely alone the entire time due to covid.

I checked in, I was alone when I spoke to the surgeon, the anesthesiologist, and alone when I walked myself into the OR.

I told them I felt dizzy, and the doctor explained he gave me a little something to take the edge off. He told me he could see I was shaking.

I was alone when I woke up.

I was alone when the doctor came to check on me and I asked him without skipping a beat, "Did you see my baby?"

The recovery process was physically terrible on my body. I experience contraction-like pains for weeks without reprieve. I could not go anywhere or do anything because every few minutes I was in debilitating pain. Driving was hard. Cooking was hard. Eating was hard. Sleep was restless. Getting any kind of rest was impossible.

And then the day started getting better, and we started to dream about getting pregnant again.

As some people who go through loss experience, the only thing that helped us was knowing that soon enough will be pregnant again, it'll be okay next time, and before we know it we will be coming home with our healthy baby in our arms.

We told ourselves what everyone tells themselves-- you are most fertile after a miscarriage. Right?

Once we have our baby, will understand why this had to happen. Because it couldn't be that one since we needed it to be the one we are meant to have.

For us, it helped to hold on to these things and manifest that reality.

4 weeks following the DNC I had a follow-up appointment with my doctor. We counted down the minutes to get the green light that we could try again.

When the doctor came in he looked at me and said "I can't believe I'm about to say this." at the same time, I didn't understand what there was to say.

Hadn't I already experienced the worst? Wasn't the bad part over? What could possibly be left to say?

The doctor explained that the tissue for my pregnancy was tested and I had experienced a partial molar pregnancy.

It walks and talks like a regular pregnancy with a seemingly normal development and strong heartbeat but at a certain point the baby stops developing because it is not compatible with life. Huh? What was happening?

Also, at that point I had already spent so many hours accepting that I wasn't having that baby and was focused on getting to the next one, the one that would work out, as quickly as possible to help with the gaping hole in my heart. So why was this even relevant?

"We have to watch your HCG levels for the next 3 months. Once it all goes down normally, this will be over, and then we can discuss trying again."

" oh, and one more thing, do yourself a favor and don't Google anything about a molar pregnancy. You're going to see all of the stuff about cancer. That won't happen to you. It doesn't really happen. Save yourself the stress. If you read anything about cancer, just know that won't happen to you."

The next few weeks I went in for blood work every other day and we did desperately for the call that the numbers were dropping. We felt like 3 months was a lifetime. There was no opportunity to get away or Escape what was happening because a week couldn't go by without stepping foot back in the office. Then, a few weeks into monitoring my HCG at 8:30 a.m., the call came. It was the doctor's Voice. It's usually the nurse, not the doctor. What was wrong? He said "Listen, your HCG numbers are going up rapidly. I have to refer you to an oncologist."

I didn't understand what was happening to me. All of a sudden, I was wishing it would only be the three months we originally discussed.

I met with three different oncologists to help pick the right one and the right treatment for the disease that ensued as a result of my now gone, and very wanted pregnancy.

"Chemo" became a very normal topic in our house.

But we were just trying to have a baby-- how did we get here?

Next came treatment for 6 months and 12 months of monitoring.

Remember when I said the only thing that got us through the days was the hope of holding our baby soon?

18 months passed where we had to be on birth control to " protect my life" because at this point, a pregnancy could quite literally kill me.

One oncologist explained that if I were to get pregnant while I still had the molar cells in my body, I could have a healthy pregnancy and simultaneously the HCG from that pregnancy would be fueling these invasive cells to grow. He said that in that scenario they would deliver my baby and then take me for a scan and find "cancer from my head to my toes." That was enough to keep me on that birth control the entire time.

All of a sudden you went from daydreaming about a baby to end this appointment at Cancer Centers. With the help of the most amazing people, I was fortunate enough to find the best oncologist who took wonderful care of me and kept my future dreams for a big family in mind with every move she made. She let my husband into every appointment no matter the status of covid and took extra great care of me.

In those 18 months, the hours were long, the days were longer, the weeks longer still. Nothing was short. So many of my friends had babies in that time. Yes, plural. Some friends had more than one. And I watched, celebrating them, not even able to imagine a reality in which it could be me, because of how far-fetched that possibility had become.

The world is a different place for me now. Someone I spoke with explain to me that we all live in a state of adaptive denial ... When we get into a car, we don't remember all of the accidents we've seen or heard about and we don't think about how dangerous driving is. That is the perfect analogy for life after any sort of surprising loss.

Before this experience, I had such a genuinely positive association with everything. I was naturally the happiest person. I never thought about all of those horrible things I'd heard that happened to other people. But now, the curtains are down, and I can have a real picture of what this life can be. And, it's not a naturally pretty picture for me anymore. I have to make a conscious effort to make it pretty. And if you knew me before, that's a reality that is hard to believe.

Don't get me wrong, I have a new appreciation for the miracle of bringing life into this world, and when I see a friend is able two I'm deeply happy for them, even more so now knowing it's not something to take for granted. It's not jealousy or wishing this on anyone. I don't want anything else for anyone.

It's just that no matter how happy I am, when I look at them, I can't help but think where I'd be if my pregnancy had worked out.

Even more so, where I'd be if I didn't have the worst luck when it came to losing that pregnancy. I understood that loss has happened, but they don't always take 18 months to resolve themselves.

On a positive note, this experience has opened my eyes to the things that keep me going, the things I wouldn't survive without.

I appreciate my husband more deeply than I could have ever imagined When We Were Young and newly married. He carries me through the darkest moments in my life and manages to get me to smile even in midst of crying my eyes out, time and time again. I always knew I was lucky he was the one ended up with, but I now can say with 100% certainty that he is my other half, chosen and made just for me, and the only one I could do this life with.

I also know I wouldn't have made it through without my sisters-- both the biological ones and the ones I've chosen for myself. Every gift sent, meal prepared, listening ear, felt like a huge hug in this otherwise dark and lonely time. One friend who has experienced loss before told me, "Welcome to the club that no one wants to be a part of. But a club nonetheless."

And although there are times where it feels like I'm one of the few people with the Platinum level membership, it's still a club nonetheless: a club of incredibly strong woman who feel the pain with me, support me, give me strength, hope, and the bravery to get up and get through this.