Fertility Friends: #3 Corinne

In the grand scheme of things, I’ve not known Corinne for very long at all, but we are most definitely kindred spirits.  The more I get to know her, the more I love her as the big sister I never had and, the more I learn from her.  Here’s her story;

First let me say that I am a 40 year old French expat living in Houston, with 4 kids, aged 15 through 6, plus 4 that didn’t quite make it.

Not long ago, a stay-at-home-father friend gave me one of the best compliments (and stated out loud, a truth that I had never acknowledged like that before). He said, as I was watching his 15 months old walking around and discovering my house: “You really like kids!”

Truth is, I do.

I think I was born to be a mother.

My story is a bit of a mix between struggling to have children, being an expat and depression, which I think isn’t uncommon in these circumstances.

I got pregnant for the first time very soon after I had stopped the pill. I was 24, had just gotten married 9 months earlier… Life was beautiful! Or was it? My husband lived 500 km away from me, because we were both newly hired and we only got to meet on weekends (which makes it even more surprising that we got pregnant that fast!)

To tell you the truth, I first realised I was pregnant because something was wrong. I was having contractions, in my 3rd week of pregnancy! The doctor gave me some progesterone, something to prevent cramping and told me to stay in bed for the next 2 weeks.

At the end of those two weeks, we’d take another ultrasound to see if the embryo had continued to grow. If not, then we would stop the medications and wait for the miscarriage.  Not the best outlook, but I was young and strangely confident.  The medication made me sleepy, and I slept on the sofa in front of the TV: the ‘96 summer Olympics and phased in and out of consciousness for the next two weeks.

The ultrasound showed, that despite all, the baby was intent on growing… Joy!

Well, I got two more months sick leave, which was not that easy to tell my, mostly male, 30 people team, but they all were quite supportive. For those two months, I moved in with my husband. Everything was fine. Then my husband had to leave on a five week trip to Houston (already!), and I dumbly missed a doctor’s appointment. My sick leave wasn’t prolonged, so I drove myself back 500km east.

When I saw my first doctor, she was very surprised as I was still having contractions. She had never expected to see me ever again, as she assumed I would stay on sick leave throughout the pregnancy and deliver in my new city.  She wasn’t too keen on letting me start work again (it was quite a stressful job), but accepted that I would be going crazy if I stayed at home. So I went back to work, for about 2 months, my husband coming back by train every week end he could. Often, my secretary would tell me “you look tired, go back home”, which I did, and then one evening, I was 23 weeks into the pregnancy, I didn’t feel right, so I called the clinic.

They told me to come by to get checked, and I stayed there for 3 weeks! I was having too many contractions, and the cervix had changed. They knew I was by myself, living on a second floor with no lift, so they decided it wouldn’t be safe for me or the baby to stay by myself (this happened in France). During those 3 weeks, I was given IV Salbutamol, to stop the contractions, which were still occurring much too close together.  Every 3 days, they had to change the IV, as the medication would inflame the vein and render it hard.  If the contractions were at bay when they changed the IV, I could shower, if not, I still remember the time I wasn’t allowed to stand up long enough to shower…

Eventually, I was 26 weeks, my husband, brother and sister managed to all take time off together, so I was allowed to get out of the hospital on the condition that I wouldn’t be allowed to help with the move in any way, would travel by air as it would be less stressful for the baby, while my husband and sister drove our furniture to my husband’s house.

My grand-father passed away, but I couldn’t travel to the funeral, which was 800 km away.

I spent another 2 months on bed rest. Eventually, as I got to 30 weeks, I was allowed to get up a bit more, enough to do the dishes from time to time, and go check baby furniture once in a while. And in the end, I delivered a beautiful son at 37 weeks, full term! Lucky me!

Well, then I got post natal depression, I got on antidepressants (the doctor actually gave me one week to wean my son, he was 4 months old, so that I could start the medication), and we moved to Houston when he was 7 months old, which didn’t help.

I was still on antidepressants when I got pregnant with my second child. My husband didn’t feel comfortable with my taking medications while pregnant, so I stopped them, and made do with just psychotherapy. I wasn’t doing too great emotionally, but the pregnancy was going well, compared to the first one! I didn’t have any contractions, just a good deal of morning sickness (I never understood why they refer to it as morning sickness. I had it all day long!).  I delivered a beautiful baby girl short of 37 weeks, on Christmas day, just 21 months after the birth of my son, after a 26 hours labour.  They had turned me down on the 24th because they were short staffed and couldn’t break my water, it would have been considered inducing labor.

Well, that experience didn’t help with depression, and I got another bout of PND. This time, it was so bad that I could hardly take care of the baby, or my son, or myself. When my daughter was 18 months old, I got admitted into a psychiatric hospital for 3 weeks. I was able to get enough help that I recovered and went back to actually being a happy person.

The happiness lasted for a while, everything was fine. Our daughter was now 2 ½, we were thinking of having a third child. We had always discussed children, from the very beginning of our relationship, and I said I wanted 3 or 4, my husband was saying 4 or 5, so we had kind of settled on 4.  Again, I got pregnant. This time I knew it was a girl, from the very beginning. It was just obvious to me, it couldn’t have been anything else. Not that the sex of the baby mattered, we already had both, I didn’t care one way or the other.

This time, I again had some morning sickness, but nothing that I remember much. My due date was Feb 16th 2002. I remember that because it was my husband’s birth date, just 3 days short of my 30th birthday.

I spent the whole summer in the Houston heat, taking care of two young children at home all day. Between the heat, the hormones and the children, I was exhausted. My son, who was 4 by that time, didn’t like being asked to nap any more, but I desperately needed some down time myself. At some point in August, I explained to him that I was pregnant, and that the baby inside me made my body tired, which was why I had to nap every day, would he please be so kind as to stay nicely in his room while I was resting.

Three days later, on a Friday, I was not feeling right, had a heavy feeling in the belly. I called my doctor. The nurse said “It’s probably a urine infection, we’ll prescribe some antibiotics” I didn’t want to take any medication without consulting with a doctor first, and the kids were both at preschool, so I went in.

I did indeed have a bladder infection. But then the doctor checked me, he must have seen something in the cervix.  He tried the sonogram to find a heartbeat, but he said sometimes it is too difficult to hear at that stage (I was around 10 weeks pregnant), so he ordered an ultrasound. The technician wouldn’t tell me anything, but I studied enough biology to see that she was desperately looking for a heartbeat and couldn’t find any.  I waited for 10 or 15 minutes before the doctor could see me again.  I was by myself, as my husband was at work. Those were the longest minutes of my life. I already knew what he was going to say, but somehow kept hoping against hope it wasn’t so.

The doctor confirmed that the baby was not alive anymore. And because I wasn’t bleeding (hemorrhaging), this wasn’t considered a medical emergency, so I was told to go back home and wait until Monday unless I started hemorrhaging during the week end, in which case I should then go to the emergency room. Let me rephrase that: My baby was dead in my tummy, I knew it, and was asked to wait until regular working hours.

Well, on Monday, I had a D&C. In the preparation room for the surgery, the nurse asked me if this was for the missed abortion.  When I started to cry again, saying I would have preferred to not be there, he explained this was the medical term for a miscarriage that doesn’t go away by itself.  Little comfort!

Looking back, I think I was trying to prove everyone, including myself, that I could still exercise while pregnant and I probably overheated walking along the Bayou.

As you can imagine, after that, the depression took a turn for the worse, though luckily it never got so bad that I went to a psychiatric hospital again. Not that I regret going in the first place: it was the best thing that could have happened to me at the time I went. I’m just glad I didn’t have to feel that bad again! But still, I was back on antidepressants.

The doctors said it was a mishap that they would check the baby’s DNA to see if there was any problem.  It came clear.  So we were told to try again.

I was taking my temperature every morning to have an idea of my cycle (my cycles had always been a bit erratic, difficult to pin point when ovulation should take place, when my period should arrive). The temperature peaks at or just after ovulation and drops back down on the day of your period. An elevated temperature for more than 14 days is a sure sign of pregnancy.

So a few months later, when I started bleeding even though my temperature was still high, even though it wasn’t quite 14 days yet, I knew it wasn’t quite normal, so I took a pregnancy test. It was faintly positive, but it was positive.  So I called my doctor, who said to go to the ER (of course it was another week end!) There, they took an ultrasound, did some blood tests and told me that there was nothing they could do for me, that I should just wait it out. That there probably was something wrong with the baby.  That it probably was for the best.

A few months later, my period was late (for me, anything after 11 days post ovulation was late, as this was my normal cycle). Then on the 15th day or so, temperature still being up, I started bleeding again. I took a new pregnancy test, which did come back positive too, but again, the ER doctors couldn’t do anything for me or my baby.

At that point, my ob/gyn said that it would probably be best to start the pill again, for a few months, so that we could run some tests, to check if everything was alright. The first one was a hysteroscopy, to check that the D&C hadn’t caused adhesions inside the womb that would prevent an embryo from nesting. Then there were blood tests, for me and my husband, to check that our caryo-types were fine and probably more tests that I don’t recall.

In the end, the doctor told us that, considering those results and the shape of my cycles (it was actually helpful that I had taken my temperature so regularly), it looked like all I would need would be to take progesterone as soon as I knew I was pregnant, to help the embryo settle until the placenta could produce enough hormones to stop the contractions.

So when my temperature was still high after 14 days, I went to a physician (we were in France for the Christmas holidays) to get some progesterone. They obliged and I felt very confident that everything would be fine.  Then I got a cold, got a fever… and started bleeding!

Again, it was on a week end, again I went to the emergency room. They took an ultra sound, and said that if the bleeding didn’t stop, I should go to the hospital in the next city we were staying at. So the next day, we drove to our next destination, and the day after that, the bleeding still being there, I was back in the ER. Again, I stayed a good half day, and again they told me there was nothing they could do anymore.

So for the 4th time, I miscarried.

I was devastated. Even more so because my husband had a very different view on this all: I don’t know if it’s because men don’t have the hormones kicking in, whether it is because they don’t experience the hopes and downs in their flesh, but to him, I had only lost one baby, at 2 months pregnancy. That, he was ok to admit, probably was difficult emotionally, as even him had started to think of that baby and project.

As for the last three, well maybe the very last time I was pregnant, but barely so, so that didn’t count. As for the two times in the middle: I wasn’t even pregnant according to him. I now can understand that it probably was easier for him to dismiss those pregnancies rather than have to accept I was depressed again.

It doesn’t matter, at the time, I felt very much alone.

I had been hoping for those babies, praying for them, expecting them every month, and then either I was not pregnant or the pregnancy didn’t “stick”. I questioned my body, my ability to be a mother (maybe it’s because I’m not a good mother that I cannot have more children).

Eventually, I got pregnant again, back in the states, and this time the baby stayed. We moved to Germany, and my second daughter was born, healthy, at 42 weeks. Just before I left the country, I had asked the doctor what the sex of my first unborn baby was.  He’d confirmed it was indeed a girl 😉

This time, even though I had some PND, it wasn’t too bad, and I managed it with just homeopathy and therapy (do you know a good way to tell you can speak a language fluently? One, you get the jokes.  Two, you can undergo therapy in that language. Three, you can understand the midwife when she speaks to you during labor!).

When that baby was just 22 months old, we moved again, to England this time. New country, new schools, new health system. The first thing I did was try to get a referral to a gynecologist, as I was determined that a sickness, depression, wasn’t going to run my life. I had always said I wanted 4 children, I was going to do all in my power to get there.

So I meet with the ob/gyn there, and he asks me why I come to see him. It turns out, as long as I am not pregnant, he cannot help me, nor prescribe medication. And it takes about 6 weeks once you get the referral from you General Practitionner to get an appointment with him. 6 weeks!

With my history, I would have had time to miscarry a few times!

Nevertheless, I get pregnant, and call the GP practice. Of course, it is around Christmas, and the doctor who speaks to me is a man, one here just to “substitute” for the regular GP. He doesn’t want to prescribe any progesterone as “the book” says that it is not indicated. I plead with him; try to tell him that every day without the medication I could miscarry, and that he would then have that disaster on his conscience. Of course, when you are as upset as I was, it gets very difficult to find your words in a foreign language!

Eventually, I met with a woman doctor who had used progesterone on patients in the past and accepted to prescribe it to me. 9 months later, our third daughter was born at 42 weeks, healthy as can be.

This was a little over 6 years ago. Since then, we have moved back to Houston, I have had more ups and downs with the depression, but every day (except when the kids drive me nuts?! ;-)), I am thankful that I have 4 beautiful children that make my life more exciting.

Last summer, I also got around to naming the 4 I never got to meet. They are watching over us and giving me strength. Thank you Diane, Corentin, Zoé and Céleste.

Don’t forget, if you’d like to write about your fertility journey, get in touch with me! 🙂