I was quite young when I became a mother. It happened a bit unexpectedly, well as unexpectedly as pregnancy can be when you are newly engaged and extremely sexually active. Mind you, we used protection but nothing is 100% effective and so our first child came into the world approximately 9.5 months after we were engaged, and 5.5 months after our wedding.

Motherhood for me, as for most women, was transformative. I had a purpose in life that had nothing to do with my needs or wants. I was exclusively at the mercy of my new baby. As I said, I was young when she came into my life and with youth comes naïveté. When our darling little bundle was nearly two I decided that it was time to give her a sibling. My husband and I had planned a trip to London for a long weekend and we figured it was as good a time as any. I knew as we flew home that I definitely was carrying more than just souvenirs of Big Ben and the Tower of London.

Anxious as I was to confirm my suspicions, I took a pregnancy test the minute the instructions said was the earliest I could. The test came out negative, but in my gut I just knew that I was pregnant. A week later, no period in sight, I took another test and lo and behold, my gut was correct. I was indeed expecting our second child. I was nine weeks pregnant when I had my first ultrasound and to my extreme joy was hearing my baby’s heart beat. All was going well, I continued with my regular visits though the OB had been unable to get the heartbeat on the now very antiquated apparatus of the time. This was not unusual and certainly no cause for concern.

At 14.5 weeks I began to spot. Terrified, my husband drove me to the ER and there they did an ultrasound. They sent us home telling us that the machine wasn’t working properly and that we needed to see my regular OB on Monday. I was immediately sent for an ultrasound. We arrived in the office, were whisked into the exam room where the ultrasound would be performed and shortly after the doctor who was performing the test started, he sent me out to empty my bladder claiming that I had too much fluid and it was causing an obstruction. This would happen once more before I would finally return, already dreading the outcome, lay down and wait to hear the heartbeat. My husband was there, holding my hand, the doctor was moving the wand, I was searching the screen and finally the question that had been on my mind the entire time, “why can’t I hear my baby’s heart?”

I was told that my baby had died at 9 weeks and that over the last six weeks I had been carrying it and my body had not rejected the fetus. I wish I could describe the pain, but that would not be possible, 20+ years later I still have a lump in my throat and pain in my heart remembering that day. I still feel the loss of my baby and wonder if I would have had a boy or a girl. My arms still resent never having been able to hold him or her, my heart has a small hole that tore open that day and my soul still searches for his or her soul.

I recently read an article that said that once a woman carries a baby, that the fetus’s DNA crosses the placenta and enters her body remaining there possibly for decades.

This is a comforting thought to me. Two years later, after trying for a year to get pregnant, I would relive the same nightmare. I remember the anger that I felt leaving my doctor’s office. I remember being angry with God and feeling broken and devastated. I wanted another baby more than I wanted to breath.

Once I had healed enough to try again I waited to start my menstrual cycle. I waited and waited, and then waited some more. Finally, my doctor had to give me something to force it. I started on fertility pills and four and a half months later, on Christmas Day, I was given the greatest gift of all. I was pregnant. But immediately following the elation, the panic set in. We told no one the happy news, to be honest, we weren’t sure it would be happy news. I was put on a course of treatment to help boost my progesterone levels, which were apparently to blame for the two miscarriages. I took each day at a time, praying to make it to at least the 32-week mark, knowing that at that point my baby could survive.

I can’t say it was a joyous pregnancy, at least not until that 32 weeks, and even then, there were no guarantees. My miracle baby made it into the world 2 days shy of her due date weighing two and a half pounds more than her sister. It was however not a delivery without complications. She had had her first bowel movement in utero and the goal was to not have her aspirate the fecal matter, potentially causing serious issues. She was blue and would not cry, all I wanted was to hear that cry. Suddenly it started and no sooner did it start it stopped. Her heart rate dropped, she stopped breathing and in came the NICU team. Thankfully, she was quick to start breathing again, heart rate normal once again, and began to change from the shade of blue she was at birth to the lovely pink shade of a beautiful baby girl.

That baby girl of mine, my miracle, is now a grown up young lady. She has an enormous capacity for love; she is a hard worker, a sassy chick, and a woman that I admire. She reminded me how much being a mother was a part of whom I am as a person and the struggle to get her here taught me a lot about life and myself.

I went on to have a third child, whom I also adore. Another set of challenges and joys. But that…that is a story for another day.