My first baby came fast. We figured we'd get used to being married for a while then invite in a third. My boy had other plans. Not only was I pregnant by the end of our honeymoon, but he came a full month early. Then as soon as we tried for my girl, there she was. We thought we'd be able to have babies on cue just like that until our family was complete. Except when we felt it was time for a third, it took close to a year to get pregnant. Then we had our first miscarriage at ten weeks. We were reeling. It was supposed to be easy.
But then, soon after, we got pregnant again. But were told that we had the Kell antibody, one of the nastiest antibodies known to medicine. Only 8% of the human race has Kell. Many doctors and nurses don't even know what it is. Those who test positively for Kell antibody often got it from a transfusion, or the man can turn out to be heterozygous for Kell, meaning only 50% of their babies will feel the effects of Kell.
But after testing, we discovered we were of the "lucky" few, 2% of the 8%. We won the genetic lottery. In a very very bad way. This meant 100% of our pregnancies would result in Kell issues. It turns out that Kell works like Rh negative but without the treatment, meaning the baby is treated like a disease by the body's immune system. I read a study about Kell done in the eighties. Of 6 women in the study who had Kell, 6 babies miscarried or were stillborn. From 18 weeks on, specialists take several ultrasounds every week and a half to keep an eye on the baby's head and make sure he or she does not get attacked by the body to the point that they have anemia. One day, the baby can be fine. The very next, the baby can be seriously anemic or dead, thanks to the body's own defenses. If the body attacks the baby like a disease, they do a transfusion and try to keep the baby in as long as they can. A very lucky woman with the Kell antibody can make it past 30 weeks, and then they induce. Even then, the baby may need a transfusion right there in the delivery room.
We were blessed in Alli's pregnancy. She showed no signs of being anemic. We drove down a full hour and back every week and a half to see the specialist, only to have the baby act as if Kell did not exist. We made it all the way to 37 weeks, getting stress tested the last few weeks, every week, since the Kell charts ended at 33 weeks. Alli was born small but perfect. She honked like a gosling and was a pound and a half smaller than our earlier girl, but she passed all the newborn testing with flying colors. She gained weight fast soon after. She was our little miracle.
Then 4 months later, she rolled into a pillow and passed away in her sleep. She'd shown signs of being prone to SIDS, sleeping so deeply that I would sometimes have to work to wake her. But this time, she was really gone. There aren't words to describe the trauma we went through at that time. I've talked all about child loss. I talked about the trauma and fraud we went through at the hands of the state, who tried to frame us for negligent homicide. But we made it through. This blog post is not about that nightmare nor the traumatic events surrounding it.
Just over a year later, we tried to have another baby only to miscarry. Thus began years of trying, testing, failing, and miscarrying again. Sometimes, we got as far as home testing for pregnancy then lost it the next day, and sometimes, we needed medical intervention to pass the fetus, once, a D&C, and once, with the morning after pill after hearing those dreaded words, "There is no heartbeat." I nearly bled to death, saw spots, became severely anemic, and ended up in the ER. After that, I generally tried to let it pass naturally.
Each time, we tried again, sure this one would be the one, the live baby to fill the hole left behind by the losses before. Each time, we were confident we would get our rainbow baby. Testing landed me in surgery to take care of polyps. They were already clearing out naturally by the time surgery took place. No other testing showed any reason. The hormone treatment, aspirin, and other treatments I took landed us in the same place, still in the empty-arms club.
I watched the dream of a rainbow fade. Finally, after about thirteen or fourteen miscarriages, we felt that need to try fade. I still had a six to eight miscarriage or two after we stopped trying then began the process of carefully avoiding any possibility of pregnancy. I had hoped if we weren't trying, but the Lord saw fit to send me a baby, anyway, this would be the one. After that, we decided there would be no rainbow. We were done, totally done hoping, striving, and trying. And somehow, I felt more peaceful than I had for the whole time we were trying. It took me that voyage to come to terms with not filling my arms, with finding peace and gratitude with the two I could hold.
Through this voyage, revelation, and other things, I have come to the sense that I will hold these babies again. They are my angels. My kids helped me name them as we put porcelain angel after porcelain angel on the shelf to represent each little sibling we wouldn't hold (for now). On Alli's days, her birthday and her angelversary, we pause to remember the little ones we never held. On Christmas, we fill a bottle with slips of paper containing any service we do for others over the season and read them as a present to Alli and our other angels.
I have a fleet of guardian angels. Sometimes, I miss them, and it hurts so much, I can scarcely hold my molecules together. But most of the time, I have peace. I know, one day, maybe when we all pass over or during the Millenium when Jesus comes again, my family will be sprawling and large. In the meantime, I will find peace and be grateful in all I have been given.
